Journey Into Madness
by Shakespira
Summary: Mad? Misunderstood? Malificar? Would anyone ever know the truth?  The story of Marin the Mad, mother of the Hero of Ferelden, Arin Amell.   OC/Loghain/Greagoir/Irving. Rated M for later chapters.   Companion piece to A Circular Journey
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **_Several people wanted to know Marin's story so I thought I would begin to tell it. My priority is still The Lion of Orlais and its sequel but I wanted to at least start this. Who knows, I may actually be able to keep two stories going at once…ah, who am I kidding? I'm no juggler.  
__**Slight spoilers for **The Stolen Throne **and **The Calling**** Oh...Bioware owns all except my imagination, although they are welcome to it. __  
_

**An Inauspicious Beginning**

_She was sitting high in the tree, listening to the night sounds, her head resting against the trunk. She had been practicing spells when the templars appeared at the gates of Dragon's Mist and her father had sent her through the basement, into the cellar and out to a clearing on the other side, far enough away from the templars and their abilities. She was an apostate and they would show no mercy. _

_During the occupation, when the Circle of Magi and the Chantry were controlled by Orlesians and their sympathizers, she was not the only apostate. Many, especially the nobles, hid their mage children because there was a very real fear that those same children would be used against them during their bid to expel Orlesian forces from Ferelden. And so she sat, at an age when she was too old for such things, in a tree, waiting for a signal that it was safe again. _

_She heard him before she saw him. An odd metallic noise coming from behind her and she turned, listening intently. He was checking traps, from the sound of it and he did not belong on their land. Poacher. It figures. She watched as the boy? Man? She couldn't quite tell. Someone dressed in dark clothing, leather from the sound of it, skulking around the trunk of the tree, clearing and resetting a trap._

"_You realize that poaching is a crime, punishable by flogging, imprisonment or death?" She spoke softly and bit back a chuckle as the boy (at least she thought it was a boy) jumped and dropped the traps with a muttered curse._

"_This is the property of Bann Graydon, of Dragon's Mist. Which means the rabbits you are taking from those traps are not yours," she said, dropping down to appear in front of him. He disappeared into the shadows._

_She wasn't expecting the knife that was suddenly pressed against her side, nor the hand that wrapped around her mouth._

"_And who would know if I killed you?" he sneered, pressing the knife more firmly against her. She raised a finger and sent a jolt of electricity into him. He fell back, dropping the knife._

"_As if you could," she said disdainfully. _

* * *

Marin hurried along the corridor, soft leather slippers silent. Her hair, loose and falling to her waist, was flowing behind her like a cloak of spun gold and she wore a triumphant smile. The vial she held in her hand glowed a bright green.

"Marin, the First Enchanter wants to see you immediately," Greagoir said quietly and she was startled to see him. He held his helmet in hand, his Sword of Mercy gleaming as it rested at the ready. His grey eyes were somber and he ran a hand through his already graying hair. Marin wondered how long before he was grey from head to foot. The Tower seemed to age everyone prematurely. She smiled at him and he returned the smile with one of his own. He supposed he should maintain some distance and detachment but he had never been able to with her.

Marin reversed course and hurried along the curving hallway. Without knocking, she entered the Irving's office, speaking immediately.

"Irving, I've good news. That formula we devised actually seems to…"

"Marin, we have com – " Irving began at the same time but they were both interrupted.

"Good evening, Marin."

Marin stiffened. What was _he_ doing here? Had he not caused enough damage the last time he had entered the tower? Just listening to Irving's voice was proof of that.

"Well, well, what brings the mighty Hero of River Dane here to our humble tower?" Marin asked, her voice biting.

"Apparently you made a request of the king that he felt compelled to act on. You are, after all, Marin the Mad. How could he refuse you?"

Marin flinched at that cool reply. She fisted her hands and stepped forward. "Do not call me that, _your grace_." Loghain flinched at that and green eyes clashed with blue. Neither backed down until Irving intervened.

"Please, both of you sit down."

She supposed he could not forgive her for letting Rowan die. That must be where his anger stemmed from. She had tried, Maker knew, she had tried. But in the end, it was as though Rowan herself had simply not wanted to live any longer. Marin sighed, relaxing her tense posture. She sank into a chair.

"Irving, I have a new balm for your throat, it might help a bit."

Irving smiled, his brown eyes almost golden in the light from the candles glowing on his desk. "My dear, I think this is as good as it will ever get. I'm lucky to have a voice at all, I suspect. You have done more than enough." Marin mentally winced, listening to his voice. It sounded like a boot heel grinding gravel underneath it. It sounded painful. It sounded like failure.

Marin turned to Loghain Mac Tir, her eyes accusing. "One of your soldiers decided to step on Irving during Remille's insurrection. He crushed Irving's throat. I found him struggling to even breathe."

Loghain raised a sleek black brow. "And this is somehow my fault?"

Marin sighed, the anger wicking away. No, it wasn't his fault. It was Remille's fault. But he wasn't there to blame. "No, of course it isn't. I just wish you had trusted us enough to warn us. If I am angry it is because of that, Loghain. We fought together. I thought I had earned your trust at the battle of River Dane, if not the battle of Dragon's Mist." There was a touch of sadness in her voice, reflected in her eyes when she finally looked at him again.

"I had no idea what was going on here. I didn't even know if any of you were still alive. My imperative was to get Maric to safety," Loghain said and there was no apology in his tone. There never was, she thought but her anger was blurred and impossible to find again for the moment.

"Yes, and so you did. But we lost a lot of good mages, a lot of good _people_. Two years later and we're still scrambling to train the apprentices so they can take the place of the enchanters we lost that day."

Loghain sighed, rubbing his temples before he spoke again. "And will you always be angry with me, Marin?"

Marin blinked, surprised by the conciliatory note in his voice. "Probably. I am, after all, Marin the _Mad_."

"I'm not sure that the people of Ferelden meant it quite like that when they named you thus," Loghain replied with a quirk of lips.

Marin studied him. He was wearing traveling leathers and his bow had replaced his sword and shield. He looked pale and drawn and there were violet smudges of fatigue under his eyes. He met her gaze with a raised eyebrow.

It was impossible for them to ever be friends, she supposed. But perhaps they could at least learn to be in the same room without tearing strips of the other and apparently he thought so as well because he seemed less guarded then was customary. She should at least meet him halfway. If she could.

"So why did King Maric send you with the answer to my request?" she asked finally and there was just a hint of warmth in her voice.

"Because his answer is to have me escort you to Dragon's Mist," Loghain replied dryly.

Marin sat up in her chair, turning to him and she was angry again. "Ever the impetuous king," she bit out and stood up, restless energy radiating from her as she began to pace the room.

"Perhaps I should leave," Irving said quietly, standing up as well.

"That might be wise," Loghain agreed in the same dry tone. Marin was more than just angry, he could see in the way she was gripping her hands together, wringing them as she paced. He was used to her anger, he was not used to the flicker of fear. He found it unsettling.

Even when the battle had raged around her, she had stood straight and tall and remarkably calm in the midst of the carnage, casting her spells, ducking and dodging those who tried to stop her. It was how she had acquired her moniker. He had seen it himself and still couldn't believe she had been crazy enough to fight in the front lines with those who were armored when she wore nothing but her riding leathers. Yet when the battle was over, she stood unscathed, tending the wounded. And Maker's breath, there had been so many losses that day. He sighed, twisting his mind away from the memory and back to the present.

"You do not need to escort me to Dragon's Mist, Loghain."

"But as the Teryn of Gwaren, Maric thought it would be appropriate for me to do so."

"So there are to be no more banns of Dragon's Mist then? My brother is truly gone?"

Loghain stood up and came to her. He hated this duty. He had performed it too many times over the years and he had never found a way to lessen the pain. He didn't want to take any more away from her than he already had but he found himself telling her about Bann Kendran's death at the hands of the Orlesians. "We sent him to negotiate with Orlais in good faith. Apparently someone didn't want that to happen," he finished, and bitterness laced each word.

Marin was still, her face pale, eyes dry. But he saw that her hands were white knuckled as they gripped each other.

"Is the king going to appoint a new bann?"

"No."

"So Dragon's Mist will just cease to exist? Maker's Mercy, I hate the thought of that," Marin whispered and tears dampened her words, but not her eyes. "My family has held the title and land since Calenhad."

"Better that then some sycophant who doesn't care about it."

"Well yes, I imagine _you _would think so as it is now your property," she bit out, willing the tears away with anger. She turned away from him and began pacing again. What was Maric thinking, sending Loghain to escort her to a home that was no longer in her family? To remind her of her father's treachery? Had she not served the crown to prove that she was loyal, despite her father's betrayal? Had Kendran not done the same?

"The question that Maric would not answer is why you wish to go there," Loghain said and Marin was startled as he had once more moved to her. It amazed her that someone so big could move so quietly. No doubt his days as a poacher, she thought ungraciously and took a step away from him.

"The Maker, it seems, has a fine sense of irony. I have been branded a malificar. Maric has held the Grand Cleric off for months but she will exact her pound of flesh. She wanted my execution immediately. Maric negotiated a compromise. I'm to report to Aeonar in two month's time."

Loghain was silent. He was angry at Maric for keeping the information from him, angrier still that he had kept the negotiations from him. He wondered if he would ever _not_be angry with Maric. He rubbed his temples again and then looked at her. She seemed to be taking her fate rather well. Too well.

"Aeonar is a death trap, even I am aware of that. You served Ferelden with distinction. This won't do," he began, now pacing away from her. She merely watched him.

"Is there no hope of changing her mind?" he asked finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Loghain turned around again to face her, staring intently at her. He had forgotten that her face was a roadmap to her emotions. He saw anger and fear and sadness, guilt and finally humor. She smiled and it was the first smile that had actually made it to her eyes since she had entered the room.

"The only way to change her mind is by using blood magic and controlling her thoughts. That would hardly prove me innocent of her charges, although I could certainly give it a try."

"Are you mad?" he asked, clearly shocked.

"So they tell me," she replied and laughed lightly.

"Don't tell me Irving is allowing this," Loghain ground out and he was pacing the room again, his long legs carrying him in quick strides.

"The Grand Cleric laughed him out of her office when he went to see her. She likes the idea of a healer being imprisoned there, apparently they are short of healers."

"So you will just cast yourself upon the mercy of demons and who knows what else? I can't believe Maric would approve of that."

"Maric approved because the alternative would have been a very public execution, an example to any apostate or malificar or worse, if he didnt' give me over for that, an Exalted March."

"I forbid it," he said, implacable.

Marin laughed at this proclamation. "You haven't any power to stop it, Loghain. And I can't imagine why you would try."

Loghain swung around to face her, twin spots of red on his high cheekbones. His eyes were narrowed, the color of a winter storm and just as cold.

"You are wrong, Marin. I do have the power to stop you and I am more than willing as you seem intent on rolling over and allowing this," he bit out and neither of them understood why he was so angry.

"If there is an example to be made, I would rather it was me than some poor innocent," she assured him and head held high, she sailed from the room.

"We leave at first light!" he called after her and then he too stormed out of the room, in search of Irving.

An hour later found Loghain sitting across from Irving, trying to understand why Marin felt the need to throw herself into the hellhole that was Aeonar.

"She has nothing to atone for, Irving. She proved that at Dragon's Mist and River Dane."

"Still, she carries the burden of a father and a lover who sold their countrymen to Orlais. Every death at their hands left blood on hers, at least in her mind."

"And a pointless death will help how?" Loghain asked, leaning forward, hands on his thighs. He quirked a brow at Irving, waiting for an answer but Irving gave a small shrug and remained quiet.

"And why, for the Maker's sake, does she need two templars to travel with us? She didn't need them before. Surely she is no more dangerous now that she is in the tower than when she was an apostate?"

"As an apostate she didn't follow the rules of the Chantry. As a mage of the Circle of Ferelden she is required to."

Irving picked up the wine bottle on his desk and offered some to Loghain, who sighed and nodded. A headache was forming behind his temples and he was sure in the next month he would have many more of them.

"There is nothing that can be done?"

Irving steepled his fingers and shook his head. "The Divine herself is involved. There is nothing that can be done."

Loghain took a long pull of the wine and set the goblet down on Irving's desk. "She is unbelievably stubborn," he remarked quietly. "I'd forgotten that."

Irving refrained from the remark that came so readily to mind as he stared at the stubborn set of Loghain's jaw. As the new First Enchanter, he was still learning politics and there were times when those were harsh lessons to learn.

Loghain shifted in his chair and finally stood up, running a hand through his hair, anger at Maric and the impossible situation he had placed him in flaring again. It rankled that Maric had assigned him to watch Marin like he was a damned nanny. He had duties to attend, responsibilities and he couldn't remember the last time he had been home. The guilt started to gnaw at him. He sighed and pushed it away as he so often did.

"We don't have the extra horses for your templars."

"The Circle has a stable across the lake."

Loghain wheeled around, leaning across the desk and glaring at Irving. "Make sure these templars are at least people she trusts," he instructed and without another word, left.

Marin was in the storeroom, pulling out her old trunk. She was almost afraid to open it, not sure what she would find. With a shudder, she pushed back the lid and lying on top, forgotten for years, was the miniature of her mother and Kennie and her, done when she was ten. Tears came unexpectedly, hot and bitter, scalding her skin. She rested her head on the edge of the trunk, wishing for the impossible.

"Do you need help with that?" Irving asked, coming quietly to stand above her. She reached out blindly grasping the hand that she knew would be there for her.

"I won't say goodbye, you know that."

"Then I'll not say it either," Irving promised, hoping that he would be able to keep the promise.

She rummaged through her trunk and found her old riding leathers and boots, in remarkably good condition considering the neglect they had suffered at her hands.

"Do you suppose the Maker is punishing me, sending Loghain? I can't imagine that Maric would be deliberately cruel," she asked finally.

"I'm sure the Maker has more important things to attend to," he said and knelt down beside her.

"I know. A burst of self pity. This too shall pass."

They were silent for a moment as Marin collected herself. She sniffed away the last of her tears and gave him a watery smile.

"I can't imagine that the Knight Commander is happy about my leaving, and so quickly at that."

"As to that, he has agreed to send Greagoir and Corwin with you."

Marin's smile widened. "You, my friend, are a miracle worker. I couldn't have chosen better."

"Now, let's get you packed."

* * *

The morning was grey and a mist was caressing the waters. Marin, dressed in her dark brown leather breeches and jerkin, was standing at the dock, pulling her dark green cloak tightly against the chill.

"Tell Wynne I've left her my notes. The archivist has them. That should surprise her."

"She is not going to be happy when she returns from Cumberland and finds you gone."

"Nonsense, Irving. She will be relieved to have me gone. I don't think she ever quite trusted me," Marin responded with a grin. No need to tell him that Wynne saw her as a rival for Irving's affections.

She reached out and cupped Irving's cheek and was about to speak when Loghain appeared, impatient and issuing orders.

"It's time, Marin."

"_Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide_," Marin whispered with another grin and she leaned forward, kissing Irving gently before stepping into the waiting boat. She took her seat and stared resolutely at the far shore, refusing to look back even once as the tower was swallowed by the mist.


	2. Chapter 2

**Certain Anger**

_He stood silently, deep in the trees, the shadows enveloping him. It was not a night for secret assignations, or secrecy of any kind. The moon hung fat and full, low in the sky, casting a bright silver glow across the field that stood between the underbrush near Dragon's Mist and the woods where he stood waiting. He quietly removed his bow, nocking an arrow. It was not a night for secret meetings and yet she obviously thought it was and it was so typical of her not to have the least bit of care for the consequences of her actions. She was too impulsive by far. But her signal had been seen by Maric, who had sent him on this fool's errand. _

_He heard her before he saw her, crashing through the underbrush. And when he cocked his head to listen, he heard the sound of pursuit as well. He raised his bow, slowing his breath to steady his aim. He waited. She broke out of the underbrush and into the field, her cloak and hair flying behind her, skirts held high. Before she had gone thirty paces, a man crashed out of the brush, closing the gap. The man would catch her very quickly as he was outpacing her with his long legs._

_He watched as she turned, hands conjuring up a spell that sent the man hurtling back into the brush, and then she turned again, running onward. He raised his bow and took careful aim. As the man cleared the brush again, an arrow flew with uncanny accuracy, sinking into the man's left eye. He fell with a heavy thud and she turned, going to kneel beside him. _

_He listened as she cried out and her sobs were noisy and full of heartbreak. He left the cover of the trees then and moved silently to her. She turned on him, eyes wet and furious. _

"_You killed him," she hissed in disbelief and he looked down at the man that he had just killed. Her betrothed. He had just killed her betrothed. _

_She came at him then, fists curled and raining down on him. He stood, arms at his side, accepting each blow without trying to protect himself. He couldn't think of anything he could say to mitigate his actions._

"_It should have been me," she said brokenly, dropping her hands to her side, her anger spent. Head bowed, she followed him into the woods, stopping only once to cast a spell, incinerating the body of her betrothed._

* * *

Loghain Mac Tir was angry. Even the most unobservant of people could not fail to see that he was angry. His jaws were clenched tightly, his eyes narrowed and cold. His lips were drawn into a tight thin line. While one hand was loose on the reins of his horse, the other was fisted on his thigh. He wasn't just angry, he was furious. But when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly cool and quiet, instructing two horsemen to the rear and two to ride ahead, scouting for any sign of trouble. Had anyone the nerve to ask him why he was angry or what he was angry about he would be hard pressed to answer. And that did nothing to lighten his mood.

Certainly he was displeased with the escort duty Maric had given him. There was absolutely no reason to send the general of his armies gallivanting around the countryside delivering people to their destination. Yet here he sat in his saddle, riding toward the Brecilan Passage and beyond to Dragon's Mist, a place he did not want to revisit.

Certainly he was angry that Maric had generously gifted a horse to Marin, who would have no use for it shortly, unless Aeonar had stables and allowed the mages to ride whenever the mood struck them. He rather doubted that was the case. Horses were rare, expensive exceptions in Ferelden. To just give one away was foolish and impractical and very like Maric. It didn't help matters that the mare was one he he'd had his eye on for Anora. And what kind of name was Niniane for a horse, for Maker's sake!

Certainly he was mildly annoyed that after having spent a fair number of years at court and in the Tower, Marin still sat a horse better than any woman he had ever seen and most men as well. It seemed singularly unfair that most of the horseguard could not sit a horse half as well as she could, for all their training and time in the saddle. It was unnatural for a mage to ride so well.

Certainly he was slightly peeved that Maric had written a private missive to Marin, delivered by the same slack jawed fool who had delivered the horse and then proceeded to fawn over Marin the Mad, famous mage of River Dane and Dragon's Mist. Of course Maric had every right to do such a thing. However, as Marin had read it, she had laughed lightly, blushed, and slipped the missive into an inner pocket of her jerkin, giving Loghain an appraising stare while doing so. Was Maric making a move on her? It seemed unlikely since she was not an elf, but she was not terribly unattractive, he was forced to admit. Loghain's mood darkened.

Certainly he was a bit irritated that Marin edged her horse close to first one and then another of the horsemen, chatting and laughing with each one until she had made the acquaintance of every man in the small detail. Of course she chose then to ride beside Greagoir, chattering like a magpie and showing Corwin how to hold the reins loosely in order to lead the horse gently. Had she no sense of propriety? Of dignity? He snorted at the thought. She had always been wild and willful. Age had not tempered that.

But mostly these were all minor annoyances that could not account for the amount of anger he felt. Not a man given to introspection on the best of days, he grimly determined that this was not even close to the best of days but still he was lost in these introspective thoughts and his mood continued to darken.

His mood was not improved when his horse suddenly reared with a frightened neigh just as an arrow flew dangerously close to him. He heard Marin yell, "Bandits in the tree line!" just as he lost the reins of his frightened horse and fell with a graceless bone jolting thud onto the hard ground. Had he not been lost in introspective thoughts that he did not want to have in the first place, he would not have been holding the reins in a slack hand. He would not be sprawled on the ground like a fool.

"Seven – no eight men! Four archers and four armed! I'll take the archers, you men take out the others!" Marin shouted, digging in her heels. Niniane lunged forward as Marin began whispering an incantation. She dropped the reins, guiding Niniane with her thighs and knees as her hands began weaving a spell. The others rode in pursuit of the armed bandits, except Loghain who whistled for his horse, cursing loudly.

Before Loghain could mount, Marin's first spell hit two of the archers, who began attacking each other, which would have been funny had Loghain not realized that he had cracked several ribs when he had fallen off his horse. He moved towards his men, who were making short work of the armed bandits. Marin cast another spell, paralyzing the other two archers before hurling a fireball at them. The strength of the fireball exploded around the archers and they simply melted into the ground. _Theatrical,_ Loghain privately sneered.

Marin moved among the men, stopping to cast a healing spell on one before riding back to Loghain. "All's well," she reported and then gave him a sassy grin before adding, "Isn't that Maric's trick? Falling head over heels off a horse?"

And suddenly Loghain knew why he was so angry. She made him feel like an incompetent buffoon and he couldn't remember the last time he had felt that way, if he _ever_ had. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared and he urged Cahal forward, trying not to wince as his ribs protested.

They stopped at a small glade just as the sun began to slant its last rays down. Loghain's men quickly set about the task of gathering firewood and setting up tents. Marin and her templars were busy setting up their own tents some way away from the soldiers. Loghain noticed with a dour glare that she was laughing up at Greagoir, whose cheeks were surprisingly pink. Corwin slapped Greagoir on the back and said rather loudly, "You lucky bastard!" Loghain's face darkened and his temples began to throb.

Loghain watched, through narrowed eyes, as Marin retrieved a large cloth and her knapsack. Linking her arm through Greagoir's, they headed in the direction of a small pond to the west of their camp, its shores studded with trees. Loghain's cheek twitched, his anger now a writhing beast that demanded freedom. He dropped his bedroll in his tent and strode in the direction they had gone, ignoring his ribs. This was not the tower with its loose moral code of conduct. She would not entertain her templars in _his_ camp.

Laughter assailed him, both Marin's and Greagoir's, and he heard her speak but couldn't hear what was said. He pressed forward, not sure what he was going to say or why he didn't wait for her at the camp, but his anger was carrying him forward and he wasn't about to slow the momentum. And then he stopped.

It was as if the sun had waited to caress her before sinking into the west, casting her in its fiery rays. She wore nothing but her unbound hair, falling like molten gold to her waist, her skin burnished by the sun's kiss. She was breathtaking and ethereal. He took a step back, his mind reeling, heart uncomfortably quickening.

"I'm sorry, Teryn Loghain, but I cannot allow you to pass," Greagoir said, stepping out onto the path in front of him. His arms were crossed and his eyes were implacable.

"I – just," Loghain began, wondering where his anger had gone now that he needed it. An incompetent, tongue tied buffoon because of her.

There was a loud splash followed by Marin's laughter and he turned on his heel and left.

And now his anger was gone completely, replaced by a mix of emotions that he did not want to dwell on and refused to give an ear to. He shook out his bedroll and began to remove his leather armor in favor of light trousers and shirt, until he discovered that the armor had been acting to hold his broken ribs in place. The pain served to take his mind off of the sight of Marin, for which he thanked the Maker. That memory was causing reactions he didn't even want to think about, let alone acknowledge.

Over their meal, Loghain looked up to see Marin watching him. He frowned at her and she tilted her head to one side, tapping her chin. His eyes slid away and she stood up, coming to sit beside him as if they were the best of friends, which they most assuredly were not. Loghain bit back a growl.

"Your color is high, Loghain. And you seem to be favoring your left side. Did you hurt yourself in that fall today?" she asked in so soft a voice he had to strain to hear her.

"I did not."

"Really?"

"Madam, I think I would know if I was hurt," he replied coolly, trying to ignore the pain when he breathed.

"Seriously? Because the Loghain Mac Tir I know once spent an entire day pretending his arm was not broken, so afraid was he of admitting a weakness. I suppose it is possible, however unlikely, that you and he are not the same person," she said, her voice still soft and now filled with mirth.

"Indeed. It does seem unlikely that they are the same person. I assure you that if I needed healing, I would ask for it," he replied, just as softly but with no trace of humor at all.

"Curious. I suppose if I poked you just here," she began and poked him sharply in his ribs.

Loghain hissed in pain. His hand snaked out, his long fingers wrapping around her wrist like a steel vice.

"I would advise you not to do that again," he ground out through pain clenched teeth.

Marin glanced down at her wrist and then back up to meet his eyes, her own narrowed and sparking with disdain.

"And I would advise you to remove that hand before a few broken ribs are the least of your worries," she returned coldly. "I am not some helpless soldier you can manhandle whenever your ill temper needs an outlet," she added contemptuously.

Loghain removed his hold on her and closed his eyes, reluctantly admitting to himself that he should apologize. He did _not_ manhandle women or soldiers, despite her suggestion to the contrary, but when he opened his eyes again she was gone. He scrubbed his face with the heels of his hands, wondering not for the first time that day why the Maker and Maric seemed intent on punishing him.

* * *

Marin gathered up her healing kit, wondering if there was another person in all of Thedas as stubborn as Loghain Mac Tir. It didn't seem possible. She sighed as she stepped out of her tent and moved to Loghain's, a wry but determined smiled on her lips.

"Loghain? I was wondering if I could practice my healing spells on you. I seem to be a bit rusty with them," she asked. She was sure he would find offense in her tone, which was a bit too full of merriment.

"Yes, come in Marin," Loghain replied and his voice held only the merest hint of impatience.

Ducking into his tent, she noticed that he had removed his shirt. His chest and side were bruised. She realized he had been waiting for her, knowing she would come to heal him. He was broader through the chest than she remembered and he had a number of new scars. His last healer had not been very good or the wounds had been very severe. She wasn't about to ask him which it was.

"Am I that predictable?" she asked and the thought elicited a wry chuckle from her.

"Only when it comes to your _need_ to help people," he replied and she heard the slightest hint of humor in his voice, which was a bit unnerving.

Marin felt her heart flutter. Or was it her stomach? He looked younger in the ambient light from the campfire, the sharp planes and angles of his face softened by the shadows. He looked less taciturn, more like the young man she had first met when they were both in their early teens. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to stroke his cheek, to somehow bridge the distance that time and circumstances had forced on them. But she could not bring herself to do it. Too much time had passed and too much anger lay between them, and he had never reciprocated her feelings and he was married and she was on her way to Aeonar and rightfully so if she was going to go down _that_ particular road again.

"Well?" he asked and his voice once more held an edge of steel. The young man he had once been disappeared, swallowed up by the gloom of the tent.

Marin knelt beside him, placing her palms above his chest, whispering an incantation. Immediately her hands began to glow a diffused pale blue and she placed her palms on his chest.

"You'll feel a series of tugs and pulls, but you shouldn't feel much pain."

Loghain did feel the tugs, a not unpleasant sensation of shifting and gentle pulling, followed by what felt like the soothing caress of a mother, deep inside him. He sighed deeply, thankful to be able to breathe comfortably again.

"Thank you," he murmured and there was no sarcasm or bite in his voice. Marin blinked in surprise and nodded.

"You should wear this poultice tonight and by tomorrow you should be right as rain," she said lightly, gathering her kit and standing. She moved to the tent flap and then turned to him, meeting his gaze, her eyes dark and unreadable.

"I miss my old friend Mac. Do you think he will ever find it in his heart to forgive me?"

As if realizing that she had given away too much, she turned again and was gone, berating herself for being every kind of fool and searching for the anger that she wore as armor.

Slipping into her tent, she dropped the kit and slid into her bedroll, willing old memories and the feelings attached to them out of her heart and mind. Sleep did not come quickly.

If it was any consolation to her, Loghain found sleep nearly impossible as well. Because for all that she had stirred up her own emotions, she had stirred up his as well and he was not a man given to emotion and regret for the past, any more than he was a man who enjoyed introspection. Or so he kept reminding himself as he tossed and turned on his narrow pallet. And one thought kept drumming away in his mind, scaring sleep away. She had asked him for forgiveness and he couldn't imagine what she was asking forgiveness for. Surely he was the one who needed to be forgiven. But Loghain was also not a man who gave or sought forgiveness and with a mild oath, he rolled over and clamped his eyes shut, willing sleep to come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Tangled Webs**

"_I'm so sorry, Maric. There is nothing more I can do," she whispered, wondering how her magic could have failed her in her most desperate hour. _

_Maric's shoulders slumped and he nodded before returning to Rowan's room. The door clicked quietly behind him. _

_She found her way to the small rose garden and sat on a bench, exhausted and disheartened. She had tried but nothing she had done worked and now Maric was saying a final goodbye to his queen. One more failure in a long line of failures. She scrubbed her face with her palms and waited. _

_He was furious, his grief still raw, when he found her. She knew he would look for her. Just as she knew that he would blame her for Rowan's death, which he did. She rose from the bench and straightened her shoulders, composing her face. Tears would wait._

"_We trusted you! We trusted you with her life and she's dead now. You viper!" he snarled, his hands gripping her arms and shaking her with each word. "Is this your revenge for my killing Auren? I take your loved one away, you take mine?" he continued, his words scalding her with their heat. That was his first and only admission to her about his feelings for Rowan. As if she needed to hear the words. Every glance he sent Rowan's way was full of unabashed love, at least to Marin, but she was sensitive to it, overly so it seemed. She imagined she would have much the same look in her eyes whenever she glanced at him, but nobody had known except the queen, who was now dead. Tangled, tangled webs._

_His face pale and twisted with anguish masking as anger, he tossed her away from him to land in a heap. "I won't forgive you for this," he ground out. Of course he wouldn't. He didn't forgive and he didn't forget unless it was convenient for him to do so. Why should now be any different._

_She looked at him, from her seat on the ground, and nodded in understanding. How could she explain to him? To Maric? Rowan had simply given up, she wanted to die. No mage healer could heal a person who refused to live. But he was too angry to hear her words, too full of grief to make sense of them so she held tightly to them, wearing them like a crown of thorns. And would he never understand that her anger at Auren's death was because she should have been the one to kill him, that she was the one betrayed by the man? He would always believe what he wanted, no matter how wrong his belief was._

_Two hours later she departed for the tower, leaving everything behind, including her heart._

* * *

They were gathered on the shore of a small pond. More a puddle than a pond, Marin thought with a wry grin. Maker knew it had rained enough today to create these puddles all over the landscape. The men were placing bets on how long it would take her to freeze the pond solid enough for them to walk on, and then there were another series of bets on how long it would take her to thaw it completely.

"Marin, you know what the Chant says about magic," Greagoir warned but not very convincingly.

"_Magic exists to serve man, and never rule over him," _she recited and laughed.

"I don't think creating a frozen pond is ruling over anyone. However, the service of creating high morale among the troops is something that Andraste might approve of," she teased.

Greagoir smiled, wishing he had his helmet on so she couldn't see it but the dazzling smile she bestowed on him in return made that wish die rather quickly. She was irrepressible and nearly irresistible when she was like this, teasing and joking, completely unconcerned about the mud crusting her boots or the scowls that Teyrn Loghain kept shooting her way. This was how he liked to think of her, wild and free and bursting with life, when he thought of her, which was far more often than he should.

"In that case, who's collecting the bets?" he responded and she pounded his back with a whoop.

"That's the spirit, Greagoir!"

It actually took three spells and six minutes to freeze the pond. Corwin won that bet. All the men went slipping and sliding on the frozen surface, laughing and trying to push each other over. Marin was standing on the bank, clapping and laughing at their antics. They were all there. Except Loghain, who was sitting in front of a sputtering fire, looking as cheerful as he ever did, much like a condemned prisoner with no hope of escape.

Alfric, a young man with a quick temper and a quick smile, won the bet on how long it would take to thaw the pond, which was twelve minutes, and by the time she had finished, her mana was nearly depleted and she was sweating with the effort but the glum mood, a result of riding in rain most of the day, had dissipated.

Loghain, not surprisingly, was unhappy. His dour glares at the group on the shore of the pond were hardly concealed. If his men had chosen to look at the solitary figure huddled by the meager fire, they would have seen the glares and wondered why he was angry. But Marin would know, he had told her long ago that her flippant attitude toward magic and commanding armies would be her undoing one day. So far that day had not arrived and that did not sit well with him at all. Why did she always feel it necessary to disrupt, to captivate the men around her with winsome smiles and outrageous behavior? And why could she command men with so little effort? And why did he, for Maker's sake, give a damn anyway? His headache began again, right on cue.

With a gleeful chuckle, she came and whispered a short spell and the fire came to life, causing Loghain to scuttle backwards to avoid the leaping flames from singeing his hair. He glowered at her and she grinned at him, completely unrepentant.

He would never claim to understand females. Their behavior was completely foreign to him and he had long since stopped trying to understand, it only gave him a headache, much like the one he currently had. Trying to comprehend Marin was like trying to grasp water in his hand. Impossibly frustrating.

They had spoken very little as they had continued their trek to the Brecilian Passage. She had spent most of the day riding beside Greagoir and when he had glanced in their direction, she would look over at him and very pointedly look away, which was annoying. He was left to wonder what he had done _this_ time. He had to admit, though he loathed doing so, that she had several reasons to be upset with him. He was sure, knowing Marin that she would tell him eventually and he was content to wait. Or perhaps he was just too stubborn and proud to ask. That thought gave him a momentary jab of discomfort but he was fortunate enough to be able to ignore it.

"My, you look as cheerful as a rabbit in a trap, Loghain. What's amiss?" she asked, breaking into his thoughts. He supposed he should be grateful for the interruption. He was not.

"All done with your party tricks?" he sneered and he winced a bit at the vitriol in his voice.

"Ah, have I offended your delicate sensibilities regarding magic, Loghain? Or is it that you're bothered that the men are actually relaxed and cheerful after a long day of riding in dripping skies?"

"You think that, do you? Or is it possible that I'm upset you've expended most of your power on these theatrics? What if we need magic tonight? Do you even have anything left after that display?"

Her laughter was light and frothy, her amusement genuine. "Oh Mac, honestly, do you hear yourself sometimes? You missed your calling. You would have made an excellent templar," she responded with another laugh. And then she reached out and patted his head. _Like I'm some damned Mabari_. He glowered at her. Impudent chit. And did she realize she had just called him Mac? Probably not, too busy patting herself on the back for her impressive magical display. Not that he was impressed, but his men surely were.

"If you hurry, you can bathe in warm water," she added over her shoulder as she made her way to her tent.

He growled. Mabari indeed, he thought, his headache coming on full.

Marin wisely ignored the growl as she entered her tent, leaving her muddied boots outside. She thought it possible that she had riled him up enough for one night and she didn't trust him not to find some deviously subtle way of punishing her. She laughed at that. He was not really all that subtle, unless one considered winter storms or summer squalls subtle. He was quiet, yes. Brooding, absolutely. But subtle? Not possible.

She had deliberately avoided him throughout the day, hoping time and distance would somehow erase her weakness of the night before. The little part of her that delighted in tormenting Loghain had absolutely nothing to do with her decision. She was almost sure of it.

She was mincing herbs with her little boot knife on a flat rock near the fire some time later when he dropped a brace of rabbits on the rock beside her.

"Cheerful rabbits for dinner," he announced with a suggestion of a smile. Her laughter trailed after him as she set about preparing them for a rabbit stew. He had been that way in their early days, dry and sarcastic and often witty, not cruel like he had become later. She stared after him with a grin on her face that probably looked foolish and moonstruck but she didn't care. These unexpected glimpses of the young poacher she had first encountered were rare gifts to be treasured.

As the men gathered around the stewpot, shuffling around and waiting hungrily for the simmering rabbit stew to be dished out, Alfric asked, "So why were you at the Battle of Dragon's Mist?"

"Maker, Alfric, she was there because that was her home. Don't you know your history? Her father was Bann Graydon," Norris, a young Lothering man who was second in command, spoke with some disdain.

"Marin the Mad is the daughter of that traitorous bastard Graydon Gallard?"

At this Marin winced. Loghain made an inarticulate sound and stepped beside her, his face closed, his eyes cold.

"Marin is responsible for our victory at Dragon's Mist. If you wish to know the truth of the battle, listen to the answer. If not, I suggest you drop the matter entirely." His voice clearly indicated that the suggestion was very much an order.

Abashed, Alfric muttered an apology and before the situation became completely unsalvageable, Marin announced dinner. She turned to thank Loghain but her words died on her lips. He was angry and glaring at her as if somehow she was to blame for Alfric's question or her father's actions. Or possibly both.

"Andraste's grace, Loghain, stop glaring at me as if I am an enemy," she hissed bitterly and stomped off to her tent, leaving Loghain and the rabbits stewing.

Corwin brought her a bowl of stew a few hours later, his blue eyes studying her for any signs of demonic possession, she assumed. She wanted to reach out and rumple his carefully combed chestnut locks and put the smile back on his face as he wore an almost grimly serious expression and it matched her own mood so perfectly.

"You eat it, Corwin. I am not very hungry tonight," she said quietly and shooed him away. A few minutes later Greagoir was at her tent flap.

"Marin, you need to eat. Don't let Alfric get under your skin like that. Or Teryn Loghain. They aren't worth missing a meal over," Greagoir cajoled, slipping the bowl through the flap. She reached out and dumped the stew on the ground beside him with a mutter about nosy templars overstepping their duties before she fell quiet again. Greagoir knew that when she was calmer she would be full of regret and apologies. He wasn't offended by her words, he was worried about her. She couldn't know how badly he wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, to smell the sweet scent of her hair as it tickled his nose but he pushed those thoughts away, one more tangled web woven through their lives.

"If you want to talk, I'll be nearby," Greagoir finally said and with a creak of metal, stood up and went to his tent, but not before shooting a venomous glare at Loghain, who merely raised a brow at him.

Loghain was squatting beside the fire, feeding it. He didn't understand what he had done this time, but that didn't surprise him in the least. He had _never _understood what he did to upset her. Well, perhaps that was a bit too absolute of him. He did sometimes deliberately provoke her and those were the only times he understood why he had upset her. Now? Now was a complete mystery to him. Had he not defended her? Had he not provided their dinner, which she now stubbornly refused to eat?

"Marin, we need to talk," he was surprised to hear himself say. When had he walked to her tent? He couldn't remember doing so.

"Want to have another go at me? Not finished glaring at me like I am the most evil creature ever to grace Thedas?" came her muffled reply. _Maker, is she crying?_ Nothing was worse than a crying female. Especially one he was never able to understand.

"I was not glaring at you, you ungrateful woman," he ground out between clenched teeth.

"You most certainly were, you arrogant, insufferable man," she responded with a sniff.

This was just ridiculous and he was not going to be made to feel any more foolish than he already felt. "If I have to come in there and drag you out to the fire to force feed you, I will," he snarled, hand on the flap of her tent.

"You wouldn't dare!" she exclaimed and it sounded very much like a challenge to Loghain.

He flung the flap back and bent down to enter her tent. And groaned. She was sitting on her bedroll, eyes puffy and nose red. Crying. She _had _been crying. He should have stayed by the fire and let the little hellcat starve.

"If you have any dignity at all you will get up and march yourself out to the fire and eat," he stated coolly.

Marin stared up at him and with a frosty glare, held one hand up. He could feel the magic radiating off her, saw the loosely coiled cold blue flames dancing across the palm of the hand she was holding up.

"I would advise you not to touch me," she warned hotly.

And then Loghain did the unexpected.

He reached over and pulled her into his arms and tilting his head to the side, he angled his mouth over hers and descended in a rough, angry kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

**Defenseless**

"_You again? Don't you ever get tired of being caught?"_

"_You don't catch me unless I want to be caught, mage."_

"_Brave words, poacher."_

_They stood on the edge of the forest, a young woman with impossibly golden hair and a small, delicate build and a young man with impossibly moody blue eyes and a tall, lean build. They were sixteen and she was in love for the first time and he was not even sure what love was or if it existed at all. Darkness caressed them as they stood in the shadows, staring at each other, wondering why the other was there. _

_She reached out a hand, appealingly soft and gentle, and pushed away the tangle of hair falling over his eyes. An intimate gesture, and he caught her hand in his, ready to push it away but she sighed, leaning toward him and without clear intent, he bent down, finding her lips with his. The kiss was surprisingly soft and tender, slowing down time and speeding up her pulse. Loghain's hand caught in her hair, dragging her closer. And still the kiss went on as they stood together in the darkness. When he finally pulled away she moaned plaintively and slowly opened her eyes._

"_We shouldn't do that," he said, sounding angry._

_She disagreed. She thought they should that often. Again and again, actually. She wisely kept that thought to herself. _

"_You're an apostate. You think you won't be caught by the templars?" Anger edged each word, an accusation plainly heard. _

"_You're a poacher. You think you won't be caught and hung?" she shot back, glaring at him. He could be so thoroughly disagreeably _depressing_ at times._

_He offered her a hint of a smile and shrugged. "I'm less likely to be caught then you are. And less likely to be hung then you are killed by an overzealous templar," he responded somewhat boastfully._

"_Well thank you for bringing such joy into my life, Mac. I feel ever so much better now," she replied sarcastically and turned to leave him. _

"_You're awfully touchy, mage," he said, grabbing her and spinning her around. _

"_I'm touchy? Have you met yourself?" she asked incredulously, tossing her head._

"_Touchy and mean," he added, his eyebrow quirked. "Why are you upset?"_

_Because you keep doing this to me and I know you don't feel the same way that I do and it hurts, you idiot, she thought sadly. "I'm not upset," she finally answered and gave him a brief smile. He pulled her back to him, kissing her lightly before dropping his arms and moving away._

"_I need to go. Your father's guards should be making their rounds soon."_

_Of course it was time for him to go. She waited for hours every night hoping he would show up. She'd been doing that for nearly a year now, and it was always the same. She cared too much, he cared too little. _

"_Don't forget the rabbits," she said quietly and turned to leave._

"_Oh," he said matter-of-factly, reaching into his pocket, "I made this and thought you might like it." He tossed her an amulet and she caught it deftly. She looked up to thank him but he was already gone. _

"_I hate you Loghain Mac Tir," she muttered. _

"_I love you, Mac," she whispered into the darkness. _

* * *

She hadn't meant to respond. She had meant to push him away and give him a good dose of ice, both verbally and physically. Instead she succumbed, giving herself up completely to the taste of his lips, so hard and demanding on hers, to the feel of his hair sifting like silk floss through her fingers, to the feel of his hands on her arms, no longer metal vices, but softly caressing along the length of her arms, sending shivers through her.

And then he was gone. She sank onto her bedroll and touched her bruised lips, wondering what had just happened and why she had permitted it. Damn that Loghain, damn him for knocking down her defenses again so easily and then taking advantage of it in a pattern that was all too familiar and all too painful. Next time he gets zapped, she thought angrily, pulling her blanket over her and slamming her eyes shut.

_Are you completely insane? _Loghain felt his face fold into the lines he was most accustomed to and therefore most comfortable with. A scowl. One directed at _her_. He blamed her, allowing himself to entertain a fantasy that she had somehow ensorcelled him. There could be no other explanation. He would not permit himself to believe he was as weak as Maric with regard to women. He would not permit himself to consider that it was he who kissed her, that she had merely responded. He would not permit himself to dwell on how soft and pliant her lips had felt on his. The scowl turned into a fierce frown. She was to blame for the headache once again surging to life. She was to blame for the other thing that had surged to life when her hands had tangled in his hair. She was a witch, there could be no other explanation.

Morning dawned brilliantly, clouds scudding across a bright blue sky, the wind brisk and fresh. Marin cinched Niniane's saddle and carefully kept her thoughts from turning to Loghain, who was finding fault with everything. The violet shadows under his eyes were back, his face harsher, pulled into a petulant frown. She wanted nothing more than to march over to him and slap him so hard it snapped him out of his foul mood. Instead she grinned whenever she caught him looking in her direction. _Take that, you cantankerous, stubborn man._ And she went out of her way to be cheerful to all the men, laughing easily with them, assisting them in breaking down camp. _And take that as well, you boorish oaf._

What was she up to? What game was she playing now? Loghain climbed easily into his saddle, watching her flirting with the men, who seemed to be fighting for the honor of helping her mount, when he knew quite well she needed no assistance. He clenched his jaw, which was beginning to ache from the effort. Why was it always so easy for her to get right under his skin and gnaw away at his bones? Did all former lovers act this way? Not, he corrected hastily, that the few kisses they had shared when they were too naïve and young to know better, meant they had ever become lovers. His frown gave way to a sneer. She would not get the better of him. He would not allow it. He had bested the Orlesians, he could easily best a slip of a woman.

"Just mount for Maker's sake! We don't have all day to watch these simpering fools falling all over themselves," he finally snarled. She shot him a grin that was bold and sassy.

"Of course, _your grace_," she said, voice dripping with sugar that bordered on insolence.

She really was the most exasperating creature he had ever had the displeasure to meet. And damn her for kissing him last night, he thought uncharitably. He had duties and obligations, oaths and promises that had to be kept, including the impossible one that Rowan had extracted from him as she lay dying. He did not have time to devote to Marin. He didn't have the energy to devote to such an endeavor. And he had vowed never to hurt his wife as Maric had hurt Rowan. So what in the Maker's name was he doing kissing Marin? Allowing himself to be kissed, he amended and then sighed. It would be another long day.

When they stopped for a midday meal, she sat quietly with Greagoir. Loghain looked over and saw that she was absently rubbing a small wooden figure that hung on a frayed leather cord around her neck. He paled. He had seen that small wooden figure many times. It was a rabbit, carved in meticulous detail, complete with floppy ears. He had made that for her. How had it survived all these years? For just a moment, he allowed himself a memory of a beautiful young girl, fingers light as gossamer in his hair, lips as soft as velvet against his. Another life, another person. The press of his responsibilities carefully squashed the memories. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his headache to leave. It seemed disinclined to do so.

And then she was there, with those same light fingers running along his forehead, whispering softly. His headache eased and he didn't even try to stop the sigh of relief that escaped him. "I underestimated your skills."

"You always did," she replied with a cheeky smile. "If you brooded less, I suspect you'd have fewer headaches," she added and patted his leather clad shoulder. He moved away from her hand.

"I would ask that you not repeat your action of last night," he said, irritated.

"My – my what?" Her voice was eerily calm.

"Kissing me is totally inappropriate, Marin. I shouldn't have to tell you that."

"Why you egotistical, conceited, vain…rabbit wrangler! You kissed me!" she hissed, her magic sizzling along her fingers. She stalked away, her back stiff, her fingers alight with the cold blue flames of her magic.

Greagoir, having witnessed the incident, looked at Loghain's grim visage and Marin's departing figure and for a moment he couldn't decide who to visit first. Finally he walked over to Loghain.

"A moment, Teryn Loghain?"

"Yes, what is it?" Loghain asked impatiently, rubbing his temples with his palms. His headache had returned with a vengeance.

"Perhaps you don't realize how dangerous an emotionally distressed mage is," Greagoir said quietly.

"She wouldn't hurt any of us, no matter how upset she is. I know her well enough to know that much," Loghain replied stiffly. Impudent templar, who was he to chastise him?

"She's not dangerous to us but to herself, your grace," Greagoir stated reproachfully and walked off to find Marin. He did not have to go far before he heard her muttering to herself, shooting bolts of lightning at a defenseless tree. Her entire body was wreathed in blue flames, dancing along her limbs and her hair was wild with electricity.

"Marin, you need to calm down," he said authoritatively. He knew better than to reach for her, standing back and trying to keep his demeanor calm and unthreatening. She looked at him, eyes helpless, shaking her head.

"Just do it," she whispered, bracing herself.

Greagoir sighed. He really didn't want to but if she was concerned enough to tell him, he couldn't hesitate. Gathering his willpower, he threw his arms out and hit her with as mild a holy smite as he could. Even then she flew back with a loud grunt and fell gracelessly, collapsing on the ground, panting, arms flung wide. He moved to kneel beside her when he felt a hand on his pauldron, shoving him aside.

"What do you think you're doing?" Loghain spit out, crouching beside Marin.

"Are you alright, Marin?" Greagoir and Loghain asked at the same time and then they glared at each other.

"Of course I'm not," she said, her voice weak and breathless. Loghain stood up and rounded on Greagoir, bringing his fists up.

"What did you do to her?" he asked, advancing on Greagoir. Greagoir stood his ground. He was a templar in full plate, what could Loghain possibly do to hurt him? He found out. Loghain's right fist connected rather soundly with his left cheek and Greagoir went flying backwards, landing with a loud "oof" as the air decided to depart his lungs rather quickly. Before he could regain his breath, Loghain was on him and they were rolling around, trying to get a punch in.

Marin looked at them in disgust. A raucous crowd was forming around the two men and she stood up unsteadily and reached in the kit that was resting on her hip. Withdrawing a vial full of blue liquid, she grimaced and downed its contents. The sickly sweet burn of lyrium flowed through her and as soon as she could manage it, she froze them in place.

"Men, go prepare to ride. I'll deal with this," she commanded in a voice that was gaining strength as the lyrium continued flowing through her. The men obeyed as one, without question.

Once the men had retreated, she stood, hands on hips, glaring at the two frozen men in front of her. "You two! I can't believe you would both behave like Mabari fighting over a bone! Greagoir, as soon as you thaw, please go back with the other men. I want to talk to Loghain. I'll look at your cheek later."

She cast a very mild fire spell, all that her current amount of mana would allow. Greagoir looked at her with grey eyes that were full of outrage but he got up and stomped off, his armor banging and clanging.

She stared down at Loghain. His left braid was undone, face smeared with dirt, shirt torn at the neck. She had to turn her head so he wouldn't see the smile that was determined to break through her scowl. He looked so completely endearing sitting in the dirt she wanted to do nothing more than gather him up and kiss him senseless, even though he was apparently already senseless since he had attacked Greagoir.

"What were you thinking, Mac?"

Loghain couldn't have felt like a bigger fool if he had paraded nude through the streets of Denerim. He sat up and glared at her.

"I was thinking that a templar was attacking a mage. I was thinking that I might actually be helping you," he ground out, finally taking the hand she had extended, and standing up.

"Why would you think he was attacking me, for Maker's sake?"

"Because you were on the ground and he was looming over you. What else was I supposed to think?" His voice was steadily increasing in volume. She tugged him into a small copse of trees, where they could not be seen and heard by the men, knowing that Loghain's temper was heating up once again.

"Oh Mac, he was doing his duty draining me of mana to disconnect me from the fade," Marin finally explained, pressing her hand against her mouth to stop the laughter that lurked so unrepentantly near the surface.

"And I would know this how? Am I a mage? A templar?" he bit back, evidently not finding much to laugh about.

The lurking laughter found its way through her hand to sail into the space between them with supreme joy. She lowered the hand since it was obviously not doing its intended job and let the laughter overcome her.

"You're mad," he accused, staring down at her with cool blue eyes.

"Oh without a doubt, Mac. Without a doubt," she agreed before a fresh wave of laughter overcame her. It was several moments before she could compose herself and she could only do so by not looking at the disheveled man standing in front of her.

"Maker's sake, Marin, stop laughing," he finally said but when Marin looked at him, mirth spilling from her eyes in the form of tears, he could not quite hide the smile that came unbidden to his face.

"I suppose I look ridiculous?" he sighed, reaching up to braid his hair but she knocked his hand aside and did it for him.

"Well, I suppose that depends on how one defines ridiculous, doesn't it?"

He quirked a brow at that and then sighed again. "I don't know how you manage it," he commented, handing her the small band that held his braid in place.

"Skill and experience, the key to managing anything, I expect," she retorted with another bright smile. She reached in her kit and extracted a small cloth, wetting it with her tongue before bringing it up to his cheek and wiping away the smudge of dirt there.

"You'll have to trust me, Loghain. If I need rescuing, I'll call for you. Otherwise, just accept that I can handle myself quite well," she instructed and patted his shoulder.

"Stop patting me like I'm some overgrown puppy," he growled, irritated again.

"Then stop behaving like one," she rejoined, her smile slipping a bit.

"Impossible woman," he snapped.

"Ill-tempered man," she snapped back, her smile falling completely.

They stood inches apart, glaring at each other, giving no quarter.

And then for the second time in as many days, Loghain pulled her into his arms and kissed her, all tongue and teeth, so thoroughly that they were both senseless by the time he pulled away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Dragon's Mist**

"_We'll need to bring at least two other mages in through this opening. The three of us will be able to fireball the barracks at these three points. That should take out fairly large numbers. We'll need archers to take out the sentries in the two towers. They can stay there and kill any fleeing foot soldiers."_

_Maric nodded and gave her a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry about Graydon, Marin. And Loghain told us about Auren. You have my condolences."_

_Marin looked up from the map, her expression sad but determined. "I'm the one who's sorry, Maric. It's inconceivable how they could do this, especially my father. We lost our youngest brother and our mother to the Orlesians. How could he do this?" A question oft repeated and never answered._

_Rowan was there, a strong arm around Marin's shoulders, a firm squeeze. She wanted to hate Rowan, but found she could not. Instead they were friends and the irony was not lost on her. "We trust you, Marin. We don't hold you responsible for your father's actions," Rowan reassured in her warm contralto. She fixed Loghain with an appraising eye._

"_What made you kill Auren?"_

_Loghain flinched and his eyes narrowed. "He was chasing Marin. It was obvious it wasn't in a romantic way," he said coolly. _

_Tears formed then, slipping silently down her cheeks to splash onto the map of Dragon's Mist. "It should have been me," she mumbled, swiping angrily at her tears. _

"_You keep saying that. Why would you want to die?" Loghain finally asked, irritated. It wasn't as if he didn't already feel badly, for Maker's sake. Must she keep reminding him?_

_At this Marin skewered him with a look. "I mean I should have killed him. It should have been me who struck him down."_

_Loghain looked a bit taken aback and color flooded his face. Rowan chuckled at his expression and Maric was slapping him on the back good naturedly. Even Marin's tears had dried and she was smiling faintly. _

"_Yes, well, let's get back to it, shall we?" he finally said and bent down over the map, embarrassed and annoyed that he had misunderstood Marin's sentiments. _

"_Are you sure only three mages are necessary for the barracks? You say there are a hundred men housed there. That's a lot, even with someone of your talents," he asked, frowning as he studied the map._

"_Yes, but we'll need your Night Elves positioned outside the tunnel coming from the passageway out of the keep. I'm sure the Chevaliers will be coming out that way. In fact I promise you that's the way they are coming out. Kendran and I have a diversion planned. He should be on the north facing abutment when we arrive."_

_The four of them sat in silence as they digested the information. Marin glanced at Loghain, who was frowning at her. "What?" she asked, somewhat belligerently. "What have I done to offend you now?"_

_His frown deepened but he didn't answer her question, just walked away. _

"_Maric, may I borrow your sword for just a moment?" Marin asked with a grim smile and Maric laughed, bending toward her, their golden heads shining like fire in the lamplight. He covered her hand with his and squeezed gently._

"_Only if you make sure it's cleaned before you return it."_

"_Go talk to him, Marin. I'm sure he is just feeling low about Auren and Graydon," Rowan encouraged. _

_Reluctantly, Marin sought him out. He was standing at the edge of the camp, his cloak pulled tightly against the biting wind. She came and put her hand on the small of his back, looking up at him with an inquiring smile._

"_Are you mad at me again, Mac?" she finally asked and he leaned toward her, just a little. _

"_I didn't know you had planned on killing him. I thought you loved him. Isn't that why you stopped coming to meet me? Because you fell in love with Auren?" _

_Marin made an unhappy sound in her throat. No, you fool, I stopped coming to meet you because you didn't love me and you were breaking my heart, she thought but didn't give voice to the thoughts_. _"I never loved Auren, Mac. I knew I was never going to get a man I really wanted, so I let myself be talked into the marriage, thinking I could have a normal life," she said and the unhappy sound thickened her voice. She would cry soon if one of them didn't walk away. Neither did._

"_But I'm a mage, we don't have normal lives. And when the Orlesians are kicked out of Ferelden, I won't have a life at all. I'll be shipped off to the tower or killed as an apostate."_

_His arm slipped around her shoulders and it was her turn to lean slightly into him. "Don't feel guilty about Auren's death. Feel guilty about not letting me do the deed, if you must feel guilty."_

_He bent down and she felt his lips on the crown of her head. Then he was gone to find his Night Elves._

_The battle was bloody and not without losses on the rebel side. Rowan came riding into the courtyard with her men, rounding up stragglers. She was a sight to behold in her gleaming armor, sword flashing and slashing. Maric was in the front lines, his purple cloak billowing out behind him as he charged the line. After setting the barracks and soldiers aflame, Marin found Loghain._

"_Are your archers in place?" she asked, wiping her face with the back of her hand. Blood came away with the sweat. She wasn't sure whose it was. _

_Loghain nodded and she was off again, running to meet Kendran at the abutment. They entered the house and ran up the stairs. She was casting before the Chevaliers could comprehend what was going on. She led them on a merry chase throughout the keep until they were finally forced to flee through the only available means of escape, a passageway that led to a tunnel. Kendran bolted the door behind the retreating men. Loghain's archers would make short work of them._

_From there, they went straight to Graydon's study. He was sitting at his desk, drinking a goblet of wine, smiling derisively at them._

"_Do you really think your rebels are a match for the Orlesian military?" he asked and Marin shook her head. _

"_You have no idea what you've done, do you?" she asked, pulling her dagger out and moving closer._

"_Save the moralizing, girl. I should have sent you to the tower years ago."_

"_Enough! Just kill him, Marin," Kendran broke in, his voice as hard as the stone walls of the keep._

_Marin gripped the dagger and stepped forward. "This is for Mother and Jonar," she whispered and leaning into him, plunged the dagger into his heart but not before he shoved his own dagger into her ribs. The pain was immediate and robbed her of breath. The bastard punctured a lung, she thought dimly. _

"_Marin!" Loghain yelled, running into the room. "Get something to staunch the bleeding, Kendran!"_

_Marin looked up at Loghain and smiled weakly. "I love you," she whispered and fell into blackness._

* * *

They entered through the gates in the late afternoon, the sun's slanting rays creating menacing shadows from the trees that lined the circular stone path to the keep.

Marin closed her eyes, the smell of burning flesh and blood assailing her, the cacophony of war drumming in her ears. She pulled Niniane up short and slid out of the saddle. Why had she wanted to come back here? She felt a hand on her shoulder, a gauntlet biting into her skin and she turned to shoot a reassuring smile at Greagoir.

"First time I've been back," she explained.

"They say you killed over sixty men by yourself that day," Corwin breathed, his voice full of awe.

"I really don't remember much, it's a blur," she said softly and began to walk toward the doors that led to the great hall. Kendran had been busy repairing all the damage after the war. Kendran. Her tears gathered and she closed her eyes against them, stopping short of the heavy doors.

"She killed more than sixty five before she fell. She was incredible that morning. The Battle of Dragon's Mist was the first time the men started calling her Marin the Mad. She just kept running into the fray, casting spells and healing the men. Most amazing thing I'd ever seen," Loghain reflected and there was pride in his voice.

"Nonsense. I walked right into a dagger, for Maker's sake. That's hardly heroic," Marin piped up and laughed, looking over her shoulder at Loghain. His face was drawn, as if he too was remembering the sights and sounds and smells of the battle. She turned and walked back to him.

"You almost died that day," he said softly, a frown furrowing between his brows. "I'd almost forgottent that."

Marin sighed. "Many men _did_ die that day. I was sure the battle would go better than it did, that our losses would be few."

She placed her hand lightly on his arm and smiled up at him. "You speak too kindly of me, Loghain. People will get the idea you actually like me," she teased and he looked down at her.

It struck Loghain, as he stood there in the courtyard remembering a far off battle, that Marin was the first and only woman, aside from his mother, who had ever loved him wholly and unreservedly. He was not a second choice, or an advantageous marriage. He was someone she had loved unconditionally and he had thrown that away in a fit of pique, out of a sense of wounded pride, and then he had fallen in love with another woman, an unobtainable one at that. For the briefest moment, he wondered how different his life might have been had he chosen Marin over wounded pride, over duty, over Rowan. Here, in the absence of duty, could he find the young boy he had been? He rubbed a hand wearily across his face. Was it ever possible to go back? And why, for Maker's sake did he even want to know? He tossed the thoughts out of his head and slammed the door behind them.

Dragon's Mist was nearly deserted now. The village was limping along with less than fifty people living in it, the Chantry barely standing, and the keep itself was home to only a few staff on retainer by the crown. They were strangers to Marin and she was glad for that. She set about finding rooms for all of the men, not difficult considering the keep had once housed twenty five Chevaliers, thirty servants, and her family. She put Loghain in her father's old suite and gave Corwin and Greagoir rooms further along the hallway. The horseguard were given rooms in another wing and they were thrilled to have soft beds and rooms of their own. Just as well. The burned out barracks had never been rebuilt.

She slipped into her old room and the memories assailed her immediately. Her pack and kit hit the floor as she stood there, remembering a childhood that had ended with the death of her father. How many times had she climbed out the window, shimming down the tree outside it, to go play in the moonlight, or meet Mac? She went to the window and opened the casement. And before she could talk herself out of it, she was climbing out and reaching for the tree. A laugh broke free, rumbling like thunder in the darkening sky. With little effort, she was down on the lower branch and hopping to the ground. Another laugh, lighter and higher, rose from her lips as she went racing down to the old sycamore tree, standing sentinel. She glanced around to make sure she was alone before scrambling up into it. Sighing contentedly, she leaned against the trunk, closing her eyes.

"Aren't you a bit old to be playing in trees, mage?"

"Perhaps, and you are definitely too old to be stealthy, poacher," she responded, leaning forward.

With a grin, she hopped from her hiding spot and landed inelegantly beside him, gasping in pain as her ankle twisted beneath her weight.

"I am also a bit old for jumping out of trees apparently," she muttered, sinking to the ground.

"Just so," he agreed but she heard the ghost of a smile in his words as he bent down and began to pull off her boot.

His hands were surprisingly warm and gentle as they probed her ankle. She should protest, she was a mage, she could heal it well enough, but she sighed deeply and let his fingers continue to stroke her ankle. She fought the urge to run her own fingers through his hair, to pull him to her, to kiss him as he had kissed her.

"Not serious, a sprain is all. You've always been lucky. At least in that regard," Loghain said softly and if she listened hard enough she thought she could hear his heart pounding loudly. His voice was certainly a bit breathy.

"Why did you kiss me?" she asked, which, of course changed the mood from intimate to tense in no time at all. His hand fell away and he leaned back on his heels.

"It's probably time to eat, we'd best get back," was his answer.

"You are still the most pigheaded person I've ever known," she complained, yanking on her boot with a yelp. She stood up and began to walk back, but her ankle refused to give her the dignified exit she wanted. She fell in a heap.

Loghain snickered. It was the wrong thing for him to do and he knew it the minute the lightning hit him. A gentle reminder, he knew, but it only served to make his snicker turn into a chuckle.

"Indeed," he managed, his voice reverberating with suppressed laughter.

"Just so," Marin agreed, wanting to slap and zap him at the same time. She found she was grinning rather foolishly.

"Go on ahead. I'm going to heal this and it will take a few minutes," she said, waving her hand in the direction of the keep.

"You claim that I am pigheaded, madam, and yet here you are refusing help because you are too pigheaded to ask for it," he said and the humor drained from his voice, replaced by sudden irritation.

"Mercurial as ever I see," Marin said and the humor still danced within her. "One minute warm, the next cold. One minute laughing, the next snarling."

"And you are as mean as ever. You think to make my mood lighter by listing all the qualities in me that you dislike?" he asked, clearly offended. Why did she get under his skin so easily? And he was not, by the Maker, going to kiss her again. But the impulse to do so was strong. He paced away from her, picking his way along the path carefully in the increasing gloom.

"Mean? I most certainly am not! You just can't stand to hear the truth, Loghain Mac Tir!" she called after him and then began to giggle at the absurdity of it all.

Headache back, Loghain stormed into the dining hall to find that the men had already eaten and the food was cold, the sauce congealing in an unappetizing glob of grayish brown. He could ask himself why he went traipsing after her but he wouldn't like the answer, so he growled instead as he began to fill a plate with a meal that he couldn't bring himself to eat. He decided as he chewed his way through the tough, cold beef, that he would leave for Denerim in the morning. He had delivered his package. Maric had said nothing about playing nursemaid to her for the entire month. Yes, Denerim seemed a safe enough idea. Safe? He dropped his fork with a loud clatter onto his plate. When had he become so stodgy that safe was the requirement for his life? Not safe. Peaceful. Surely he was entitled to peaceful? He pushed his plate away, threw down his napkin and stomped upstairs. Mercurial indeed!

He heard her when she came upstairs. She was humming, snippets of singing interspersed with the humming. What in the Maker's name was she happy about? Did she derive some perverse pleasure in giving him a headache and making him feel like a fool? He supposed she must because she was certainly adept at doing so. He opened his door and saw her enter her room. He went to the door, rapping briskly on it.

"Not tonight, Greagoir," she said as she opened it and then blushed.

"Indeed. And what is the unfortunate templar not getting tonight?" Loghain sneered, pushing past her and slamming her door with a thundering crash.

"Jealous?" she taunted with her hands on her hips. Her cheeks were red, her green eyes blazing.

He snorted at that. "Don't flatter yourself. As long as you and your templars are my responsibility you'll maintain some modicum of decency," he snarled.

She did not zap him. The slap, when it connected, was almost as loud as the slamming of the door had been.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: **__Thank you to all who have reviewed, lurked, and alerted to this story. It makes my day that much brighter, knowing someone is reading and enjoying the story._

_**Pride is a Cold Bed**_

_Moonlight filtered through the trees, casting odd shadows across them that danced when they moved. Her hand on his chest, she moved in to kiss along his jaw. An inarticulate sound rumbled through him and he drew her closer, his hands resting on the curve of her hips. Trailing along his jaw and up to his ear, her lips teased and tickled, leaving him breathing heavy. He wanted more but he couldn't do that to her. Or himself._

"_Stop," he said finally, control sliding away with each kiss. He stepped back, his breath ragged._

_She turned, lowering her head. "You don't want me," she said simply and began to walk away. Maker, she wasn't crying, was she? He could hear that little tremor in her voice that usually meant tears were close at hand. _

"_Don't be that way," he began, not certain what he was going to say, just wanting to stop her from leaving. _

"_I lo…" she began._

"_Stop!" he ordered again, more sharply on a note of panic. Loghain's chest constricted, squeezing his breath out of him. Love was a useless emotion, more prone to hurting a person than anything else. He took a step back, angry that she was going to ruin whatever it was they shared with words that meant nothing._

"_Don't be ridiculous," he snapped, taking another step away._

"_Thank you, how very romantic of you," she bit back sarcastically. She turned to him then, hair unbound, caught in the wind. He wanted to gather it in his hands, let it sift through his fingers, but she was too hurt to look at him. He wasn't sure he could touch her without her freezing him. Not an experience he wanted to go through again. But he couldn't let her ruin everything by putting a name to it. He started to move forward but her words stopped him._

"_Ridiculous is carrying on for more than two years, skirting around a real relationship. I can't do this anymore, Mac, whatever _this_ is."_

_The constriction was back, so painful he thought there might be tears in his eyes. He blinked rapidly. "Can't or won't?" he finally asked, his voice cool and cruel._

_She looked at him then, her eyes luminous with tears that caught the glow of the moonlight, trailing down her cheeks like quicksilver. "Does it matter? Bann Olsom's son Auren has come to pay court. Father approves."_

_Anger took a stronger hold on him. "Ah, a noble. Of course. Can't have a farmer's son, a _poacher,_ in the family, can we?" he sneered and swatted her hands away as they came up to push his hair back from his eyes. That tender gesture of hers. He would never feel it again. Because he wasn't good enough for her. He had been a fool to ever think otherwise. _

"_Then go, mage. Go to this Auren, this noble man of noble birth. I won't be back," he promised coldly and then he just disappeared into the shadows as if he had never been there to begin with._

_He kept his word and didn't go back, promising himself that he wouldn't miss her. Except that he did. But she had made her bed; it was time for her to sleep in it. An unfortunate expression, all things considered. He had never pretended to be more than he was, a farmer's son, an outlaw, a poacher. Why did it suddenly matter to her? Why was she allowing a noble to chase after her? Damn her. He had some pride, even if he was dirt to the nobles. Dirt was nothing to be ashamed of. He would not go crawling back to her. But he missed her. Each night he tried to sleep and found he couldn't because of a certain green eyed, golden haired girl who aggravated and confounded him. But love was a futile, dangerous emotion and he wasn't going to say the words to her just so she would take him back. He had a bit more pride than that, damn her. _

_The wind was wailing, frigid and ruthless, the night he finally decided he would go back and talk to her, try to get her to understand that what they had was special, not something that needed defining, feelings didn't fit into those meaningless words. But he was closer to Lothering than Gwaren and Dragon's Mist was two days away. It would have to wait. He whistled to the men, calling it a night. They would head back to Gwaren on the morrow. He held still, listening. Something was going on out in the night and he could feel it all the way to his bones. A shift of the wind, too many noises that were neither beast nor wind. Then a young, golden haired man stumbled into him and from that day forth his life was never again his own._

* * *

Loghain's cheek was on fire and his eyes were murderous. "Do not hit me again, Marin or I will knock you down, woman or not," he finally said with cold precision. His blue eyes were flint and ice.

Marin swallowed, nodding. What had possessed her to slap the man? She hadn't meant to hit him, why did he have to constantly go for her throat, knowing it would set her off? So she could, in turn, anger him? Get him riled up? Could he only access his feelings when he was too angry to keep his walls up? Her tension dropped away from her as she realized that was precisely the problem. Surely there had to be another way to disarm him? To reach beyond those walls he had built up. She took a deep breath. There was only one way to find out.

"I'm sorry, Mac," she said and took a step forward, bringing her hands up. Loghain took a step back.

"Oh my, the Hero of River Dane afraid of a woman?" she teased lightly, smiling up at him.

"You _are _a mage and mad," he replied with a ghost of a smile.

"Just so," she agreed, taking another step forward. She closed her eyes and reached up to touch his cheek, whispering softly as she did so.

Warmth enveloped him, a caress as soft as down, and then the burning in his cheek was gone, along with his headache. He felt calmer. And more nervous. She was too close. And too appealing. He took a step back.

"If you have any desire to kiss me, I would not be offended," she said with feigned indifference, dropping her eyes to regard the floor.

"Indeed?" he asked dryly.

"Just so," she once again agreed, her smile brightening.

"Won't Greagoir be upset?" he couldn't resist asking, eyebrow arched and she chuckled.

"Well I suppose he might be at that, but he's a forgiving soul."

Loghain took a step closer. This was wrong. On so many levels, this was wrong. If he had an ounce of sense he would leave her room immediately. His head screamed that it was wrong, wrong, wrong. But his heart, that little organ people thought he didn't possess, knew it was right. Knew it had been right long ago, when he had been too proud to follow it. And yet, there were so many demands on him, and she was going to Aeonar and he had a family and a country to protect, a king to protect from his own folly. And they were both going to be hurt and he wasn't sure he had it in him to be as kind to her as she deserved. And then his heart spoke again and he thought maybe he should listen to it. Yet he hesitated. He closed his eyes, trying to quiet the insistent voice that told him to leave, to just go back to his room and back to his anger and pretend this woman didn't exist. As if he could ever pretend that now. Damn her. He should leave. Now. And yet.

She reached out and brushed his hair back, a tender gesture that coaxed a sigh from him. The last of his tension was brushed aside with that same tender gesture.

He took a small step closer and reached out and let his fingers trace the curve of her lips, the shape of her cheekbones, so familiar from his youth, so achingly familiar that he felt transported to a time and place where duty and responsibility were only concepts, not a way of life. His fingers made their way of their own volition to her abundant hair, letting the golden strands curl around his fingers, caressing them. She stood still, demanding nothing from him that he wasn't willing to give but he could feel her breath, ragged and warm against his skin.

He took another step closer, catching her chin and tilting it up, looking for any sign that he should stop and not finding one his lips found hers and the memories of nights spent under the stars with her in his arms washed through him, flooding him with unexpected tenderness. The shape of her mouth as it moved against his, the feel of her tongue gently teasing his, the heat of her breath in his mouth, her hands roaming along his back and up to his shoulders were all so familiar and yet so new to him.

He took another step closer, so close that their bodies were nearly touching. His fingers threaded through her hair and his lips touched the delicate skin of her neck. She gasped and he felt her hands slide along his back and then to the hem of his shirt. His breath hitched as he felt her fingertips brushing along his bare skin, winging their way up his torso, grazing a nipple.

He took the last step, pressing his lips against the curve of her jaw, up to her ear to bite gently at the lobe, insinuating a leg between hers. His hand made its way to her breast and he cupped it gently. She covered his hand with one of hers, applying pressure, showing him that he needn't be so careful. What had been a slow, languorous dance of desire became a frenzied plummet into need. She was gasping and moaning, thrusting against him. Her leg was wrapped around his, urging him to meet her thrusts but there were so many obstacles between her bare skin and his. They were stumbling to the bed, their lips melded, tongues twined, his groans intermingling with her moans. Her hands were insistent and urgent as they unfastened his shirt and tugged at his trousers.

Gentleness was beyond him now. He found her neck, sucking and nipping at the soft skin, his hands working feverishly at removing her dress. He was making sounds he hadn't known he was capable of, carried along on a raging current of need that narrowed his vision to this one moment, this one person. Her hands were busy touching and caressing his skin, her mouth now busy at his bare chest. Tongue tickling, teeth nipping and her hand, soft and firm, freeing him, caressing him, stroking him. But he needed more than her hand, he needed her warmth to surround him, to pull him into her. He couldn't catch his breath, he didn't _want_ to catch his breath because it felt like the perfect way to die, in her arms, her legs wrapped around him, squeezing tighter and tighter, her mouth open, gasping his name, calling to him to follow her. His thrusts grew more frantic as the heat of his blood gathered and he thought he couldn't last another minute and then he felt it, her magic, that caressing softness inside, rippling through his blood, surging through him, touching every nerve ending and setting it on fire and he was crying out, a feral cry that continued until he was empty and spent, his muscles quivering from his release, his blood singing her name as it coursed through his veins.

"Just so," she whispered, a smile encasing the words.

"Indeed," he whispered in reply, an answering smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: ****_Spoiler for_** The Stolen Throne**** _The remark Marin overhears is directly quoted from the book, which is owned by David Gaider and Bioware. I just borrowed it and will return is shortly.  
As always, I thank you all for reading, reviewing and making my day brighter._

* * *

_**Battle Lines**_

_The battle for Gwaren was over. Somehow they had routed the Orlesians, but it had been a bloody battle. Marin slumped in the shadows, exhausted. Maric had very nearly died and without Wilhelm and her healing him, he would have. She had seen Loghain briefly but had been too busy with the more seriously wounded to talk to him. _

_Maric. She was furious with him. He had started the battle much too early and they had not killed or rounded up nearly as many Chevalier's as they had wanted to. Rowan had been in no immediate danger but he had felt she was so he came to her rescue and nearly killed them all. Loghain had been furious but he was quick to forgive him. Marin was not quite ready to do the same. She wandered over to a bucket of water and washed the blood from her hands, wiping them on her linen shirt. She was a mess, her hair tied up in an unruly knot and her clothes and face splattered with blood and soot from the fires that had been set as a diversion and then in retaliation. She wanted to take a bath and then fall into a bed and sleep for a week. She wanted to find Maric so she could yell at him. And that's where she was headed when she saw Rowan and Loghain._

_Standing in the shadows, she saw Rowan, dressed in a red silk gown, clutching her arms and looking away from Loghain. She heard him tell Rowan she was beautiful. Marin stumbled back, her heart pounding. She did not want to watch but couldn't help herself. Her heart was no longer pounding, but breaking as she heard Loghain's words._

"…_still I can't stop thinking of you…" and then Marin was running, tripping in the dark, fleeing from the thing she had known for three years but refused to admit to herself. He couldn't love her, but he could love Rowan, a woman promised to Maric. Marin felt the sobs pushing up in her throat, overtaking her as she ran, the magic dancing and arcing. When would she learn? When would her heart be free of his control over it? _

_No matter how much she tried, she couldn't stifle the sobs that shook her as she finally sank to the ground. He had known, he had always known she loved him. And it didn't matter. She didn't matter. She had never mattered to him, not in the way she wanted. Not in the way she deserved. Her hand reached up to her amulet and she started to yank it off but stopped. It was the only thing he had ever given her. She rubbed the carved rabbit, her sobs subsiding. She didn't need Loghain's love. She was a soldier in the rebel army, serving the rightful monarch of Ferelden. She loved Rowan and Maric, she had grown very fond of Arl Rendorn and Wilhelm. And she would always love Loghain, even if he couldn't return that love. But she was not going to waste another tear on that man. _

_Walking back to the courtyard of the manor, she stopped to talk to a young man who had a severe head wound. He was smiling up at her as if she was Andraste herself. She sat down beside him and took his hand, quietly talking to him. Loghain found her some hours later, sound asleep, still holding the soldier's hand in hers. The soldier was dead. Loghain sighed. It was just like her to foolishly sit out in the cold without so much as a cloak for protection just to hold the hand of a dying man. _

_He squatted down beside her and gently shook her. "Come on, Marin, you need to get some sleep." He carefully extracted her hand._

_She stared up at him with bleary eyes. "I'm fine," she mumbled closing her eyes again. With a growl of disapproval, he scooped her up and stood. She was surprisingly light in his arms and it stirred memories that he quickly pushed away. That ship had sailed over three years ago and he was the one who had made sure of that. And what had possessed him to say anything to Rowan about his feelings for her? _

"_Damnable pride," he groused, carrying her to her tent. "We need you well rested, not dragging around like a sleepwalker."_

_Marin snuggled against him, snoring gently. With a shake of his head, he settled her on her bedroll and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. She looked utterly peaceful in her sleep, a slight smile tugging at her lips, and he couldn't imagine why._

_He stared down at her. She and Maric were so much alike, charming and aggravating, impetuous and infuriating, generous and frustrating. He was never quite sure if he loved them or hated them and wondered as he looked down at her sleeping so peacefully why he was blessed and cursed with the both of them._

_He turned on his heel and left, quietly gathering his things. It was time to leave all this, to get away from the twisted, toxic, confusing battlefield of emotions. They would all survive just fine without him._

_But things seldom worked quite the way he planned them. He blamed both Marin and Maric. Somehow he went from wanting to leave to becoming Commander of the rebel forces. _

* * *

Marin blinked, wondering whose arm was holding her so tightly pressed against a very solid chest. Oh Maker, she hadn't actually slept with…oh no, it wasn't possible that she was that foolish. Was it?

"Good morning, mage," a deep voice rumbled against her ear. Her eyes flew open.

"Mac?" she squeaked, and felt his arm tighten around her. She turned in his arms and looked at him. His eyes were heavy lidded from sleep, his face free of its customary scowl. He wasn't quite smiling but he wasn't frowning, that had to count for something, didn't it?

"Were you expecting someone else?" he asked dryly, quirking a brow at her.

She grinned at that, leaning up on her elbow. "A lady never tells," she teased.

"Indeed," he said, disbelieving.

"Just so," she affirmed and he pulled her down for a kiss, his lips warm and sweet.

A sharp rapping at the door had them springing apart like guilty lovers. Which they were, thought Marin with an amused snort. Loghain gave her his famous look – equal parts scowl and smirk – and she rolled off the bed, searching for clothes. She grabbed her shirt and pulled it over her head.

"Who is it?" she asked as calmly as she could.

"Greagoir," came the terse reply. It was Loghain's turn to snort in amusement. She shot him a withering glare.

"A moment, Greagoir," she called, struggling to find her pants. She grabbed Loghain's instead.

By now Loghain was downright chortling at her obvious nervousness. He slid out of bed and padded around to her side, tall and lean and well muscled and completely nude. Her eyes traveled the length of his body and she sighed. It would be wonderful to trace the silky whorls of hair on his chest that tapered into a thin band of black silk from his navel to…She heard Loghain chuckle, a deliciously low rumble that made her body warm and wanting.

"Marin? Are you alright?" Greagoir called through the door, his voice now concerned as well as terse.

"Yes, yes. Another moment!" she called and smacked Loghain who was finding the entire situation entirely too amusing for her liking.

"If you don't want to hide in the armoire, I suggest you stop chortling like a little boy," she hissed at him. He pulled her to him, running his hands down to cup her bottom, pulling her even closer. His tongue found her ear and she moaned…loudly.

"Marin! Open up!" Greagoir commanded, his voice now angry and concerned as well as terse.

"Unbearably insufferable poacher," she whispered against Loghain's impossibly well muscled chest.

He finally took pity on her and climbed back into bed, lacing his fingers behind his head and smirking, the sheets pooling very suggestively at his waist. She believed she might just hate him.

She went to the door and opened it just enough to squeeze out and pull it shut quickly behind her. "Good morning, Greagoir. Did you sleep well?" she asked with a smile.

He was glaring at her and his eyes narrowed further as he brought his hand up and pointed at her neck. "Better than you, I would imagine. You look like some of the local wildlife had a go at your neck."

Marin felt the blush start at her toes and creep ever upward to infuse her face with scarlet. "Oh," she said in a tiny voice.

"I came to your room last night but you were too preoccupied with the local _wildlife_ to hear me knock," he added with the first trace of a smile.

"Oh," she said again, her voice not much louder.

"So I hoped we could find some time this morning to get together," he added, the smile growing a bit more at her obvious discomfort.

"Of course. If you want to go back to your room and strip down, I'll be right there," she finally murmured.

"And you might want to grab your own pants. Loghain's are a tad long for you," he added as he left. His laughter floated behind him. Marin believed she might just hate him as well.

She slipped back into the room, barely resisting the urge to slam the door. Loghain was watching her with a frown.

"Did I just hear you tell Greagoir to strip down?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"Were you listening at the door?" she queried, sliding his pants down her legs and digging in the pile of clothes for hers. She wriggled into them. His hand reached out and pulled her onto the bed, his fingers biting into her flesh.

"Oh Mac, honestly. Do you really think so little of me that you believe I would have a _templar_ as a lover?" she asked, exasperated.

"Is there another reason you would have one strip down?" he asked, his voice as biting as his fingers.

She sighed and sent a mild jolt of electricity at him. He hissed and jerked, his fingers dropping their hold on her, falling lifelessly onto the bed. "Do not do that," he growled.

"Then do not manhandle me and do not be so ridiculous," she chided, turning away trying not to smile.

"Besides, you didn't mind last night," she added, unable to hide the smile that lit her face. She turned back to see a slow blush creeping up his chest and mottling his neck. Her smile turned into a chuckle.

"Jealous and embarrassed. This is a most fortuitous start to my day," she added, sliding off the bed.

Picking up her small kit, she slipped out the door and padded barefoot down the hall, her smile wide, her steps light.

Greagoir was stretched out on the bed on his stomach, wearing only his trousers, low on his hips. She opened her kit and took out some mint oil and went to sit on top on him. "I hope you didn't suffer too badly last night, Greagoir. It was thoughtless of me not to do this before I…" she trailed off, rubbing the oil into his back and beginning to massage the tense muscle mass in the small of his back.

"Yes, before you uh…" he agreed and then groaned as she dug in her fingers. "I think that when you get back to the tower, you'd benefit from a poultice Irving and I created. It will keep heat applied most of the day, which will help keep these muscles from knotting so badly."

He grunted as she dug her elbows into his shoulder muscles. "Either that or I take up residence in Aeonar," he agreed and then sputtered. "I'm sorry, Marin. That was a thoughtless remark."

Marin bent down and kissed the back of his head before going back to massaging his ropey muscles. "Oh Greagoir, don't walk on cat's paws trying to spare my feelings on the subject. I don't mind all that much, honestly."

"I think sometimes you really are mad, Marin. Everyone minds going to Aeonar."

"If I can once again do what the Maker intended, rather than teaching and just sitting around the tower wasting time, I'm happy. No reason to fear the demons or the tears in the veils or whatever monsters the Chantry claims have taken residence in the place."

"What of Loghain?" he asked quietly and there was just a hint of disapproval in his voice.

"What of him?" she asked quietly, her hands stilling.

"He'll just hurt you again," Greagoir answered, his voice solemn.

"I'd like to think I'm a bit wiser now, my dear Greagoir," she said lightly, hopping off him.

"Now, let me know if they knot up again and get the maid to bring some hot water up here for a bath. The soak will do you good."

When Marin returned to her room, Loghain was gone. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry so she climbed back into bed, pulled the covers over her head and went back to sleep. Alone.

Greagoir found Loghain in the dining hall, digging hungrily into breakfast. He looked up and raised a brow at his approach.

"Greagoir," he said when he had finished chewing.

"Teryn Loghain," Greagoir replied stiffly. He sat across from the teryn.

"I think we can dispense with formality, Greagoir. Loghain will do just fine," Loghain replied with a smirk.

"If you hurt her, you'll answer to me," Greagoir began without preamble.

"You love her," Loghain said and the smirk was gone.

"Of course I do. We all do."

"Ah. Interesting to hear that the templars actually love a mage," Loghain said with a sneer.

"The mages love her too. Anyone who knows her loves her. Except maybe you," Greagoir accused.

"How I feel about Marin is not really your business, is it Greagoir?" Loghain replied with icy disdain.

"Actually it is. I'm her templar. My duty is to protect her, as I mentioned before. She is volatile and that makes her a danger to herself. Given your past, you are a danger to her as well."

Loghain's hand slapped the table angrily. "Quit being obtuse, Greagoir and tell me what you mean," he ground out, leaning forward. Greagoir leaned forward as well.

"Marin's power as a mage is second to none. Not one mage I've ever seen, not even a blood mage, has the kind of power Marin has. She is not likely to give in to the thousands of demons screaming at her every day to be let in. She is more likely to turn her power on herself or simply lose control completely and the damage would be devastating. That's what I mean, _your grace_," he replied coldly.

Loghain leaned back, the shock clear on his hawkish features. His eyes narrowed. "And you suppose that I will somehow bring this about?" he asked, his voice every bit as cold as Greagoir's.

"I do. I warn you now, I won't tolerate it," Greagoir replied and stood up. With a curt bow, he quit the room.

Marin would be furious with him for that but he wasn't sorry. He was her templar and he would protect her, even from her own foolish heart.


	8. Chapter 8

**Fire and Ice**

_West Hills nearly broke Marin completely. She was assigned to Arl Rendorn's troops in the main body of the attack force. Rowan and Loghain each commanded troops in reserve, well hidden. Maric was to stay in out of harm's way with a private guard. _

"_You shouldn't be in the main line, Marin. Hold back with the support troops," Loghain argued but she shook her head stubbornly._

"_I can be of far more use with Rendorn. I'll be fine. Just make sure you're ready," she said and grinned. "Don't tell me you actually care about me," she added and there was more sting in her words than either of them liked. _

_She watched his face close, his jaws clenched. Before she could apologize, he stormed off, back stiff and shoulders squared. She would never learn to curb her tongue and he would never learn to let go of his pride, it seemed. _

_The battle was a disaster from the very start. Betrayed, Arl Rendorn led his troops into a trap. It seemed to Marin that the sky itself was bleeding and full of inhuman screams. She watched in horror as the reserve troops came but without their commanders. Loghain and Rowan seemed to have quit the battle before it even started. A second betrayal, in Marin's mind and she fought with renewed fury, casting and slashing with her dagger until she was numb with pain and covered in blood and gore. Rendorn fell, dead before she could cast a healing spell on him and her battle lust grew. She felt the power coursing through her, spiking out of her and hitting targets relentlessly until she was spent of mana, panting and drenched in sweat. All around her was death, the moans of the dying, the triumphant cries of the victor. She staggered up and onward but there was no place to go. The sword caught her in her side, a sharp pain blooming. She clutched at the wound and continued on, trying to help but it was too late, too late. Tears mixed with the blood and sweat. She was screaming in her rage but it was too late. And they had been deserted by Loghain and Rowan. When the blow came, she was relieved, falling to the ground and grateful for the sudden silence that descended. _

_It was over a month before she even spoke to Rowan or Loghain. Maric came to her one night and settled beside her, where she sat by the fire. He slipped a companionable arm around her shoulder._

"_Are you ever going to forgive them?" he asked, his voice a gentle rebuke._

"_I don't know. You weren't there. It was a mass slaughter and I couldn't do anything to stop it," she whispered and tears gathered, slowly leaking from her closed eyes. She leaned against him, their golden heads touching lightly. _

"_They did it to save me, you know. I wish they hadn't. One man's life is not worth more than another's, not on that scale. I've made them promise never to do that again."_

"_That hardly helps those who died at West Hills or Gwaren," she mumbled around her tears. _

"_You're blaming yourself but taking it out on them, Marin. That's not like you."_

_Her tears came steadily now, she was choking on them. "I can't face Rowan knowing that I'm responsible for Rendorn's death. I was there to protect him," she cried, sobbing against his chest. _

"_Oh Marin, she doesn't blame you for that," Maric chided gently. And then Rowan was there and Marin reached blindly for her and the two women hugged, crying. She wanted to hate Rowan, but she loved her. It was hard not to love the beautiful warrior maiden. It was hard not to want to hate her every time she saw the way Loghain looked at her._

_Loghain found her some time later and tried to talk to her but she wasn't ready to talk to him. He wouldn't apologize, he never did. And something had happened, something had changed between Loghain and Rowan. Marin could see it in the coolness of his gaze when he looked at her. _

"_What do you want?" she asked hotly._

"_What is the matter with you?"_

_Marin ran her hands along her arms, pulling her cloak closer. He reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and she swatted his hand away angrily. His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened._

"_You're acting very childishly, Marin," he bit out coldly, his look darkening._

_She pushed her cloak back then and yanked her linen shirt up, revealing a red and angry scar that ran along her side from the top of her hip to disappear into the folds of her upraised shirt. "Do not dare," she seethed. "I watched many a good man butchered on the battlefield, Mac. And where were you? Leading the reserves, Commander Loghain? No, you were chasing after Rowan like a love struck simpleton. You left us to die, Maker damn you!" she yelled contemptuously._

_He grabbed her roughly, his hands digging into her shoulders. She twisted away from him, her hurt as raw and angry as the scar on her side. He had made his choices and she was the one living with the consequences._

"_As I recall, you were the one who left me first, Marin. You decided a nobleman was the better man. A nobleman that turned out to be a traitor," he snapped coldly. _

_She wished, as she turned and walked away, that she could just not care about him and be done with it. At least, she thought bitterly, she had not cried this time._

* * *

Loghain stood, arms folded, ankles crossed, leaning against the wall of the barn, watching Marin, her face lit with joy, playing with a kitten. He had forgotten how childlike she could be. She was such a curious combination of sensuous woman and little girl. She was breathtaking in the filtered light, her hair glittering like newly minted sovereigns where the sun caught it. He knew if she looked up, her eyes would be filled with merriment, her lips tilted up. For now the kitten, a gray drab little thing, held her complete attention and he was content to watch her, to let his mind drift along and absorb the moments they had together.

He wondered, not for the first time and he doubted the last, why they had managed to wound each other so deeply that even now there was an almost uneasy truce between them, a barely contained fire that threatened to rage at any moment. If he really examined it, he would guess that was part of the attraction, that fine line they walked between love and hate. He would not have thought that of himself, he always thought of himself as a simple man of simple emotions. They knew, each of them, just how to inflict the deepest cuts, the most painful wounds. They also knew, each of them, just how to mend those cuts, to ease the pain of those wounds. He realized with a profound sense of understanding very unlike him, that she was fire and he was ice.

He should be on his way back to Denerim. Maker knew what mischief Maric was up to. But he couldn't bring himself to leave her. She touched that lost boy in him, that young man who had once believed that heroes wore gleaming white armor and saved fair maidens, a boy that was lost when his mother was raped and murdered in front of his eyes. She brought to him a sense of peace that he had not experienced, not even with Rowan, as if she alone knew where his heart resided and she could reach in and touch it, soothe it. And tear it out. He pushed himself away from the wall and straightened. Too much thinking was giving him the start of a headache.

"Have you named it?" he asked, coming to crouch beside her.

"Her. She is a she," Marin teased, rocking into him. "Isn't she adorable? I've named her Wynne," she smirked and while he didn't appreciate the joke that must be there, he heard Greagoir chuckle.

He wanted to sweep her up into his arms and take her back to her bedroom and just hold her, touch her soft skin. Drown in the feel of her wrapped around him. Instead, he offered her a hand up and they walked arm in arm, the kitten cuddled to her chest. He heard Greagoir's armor creak as he fell in behind them.

"Does it bother you to have him follow you about like a puppy?" Loghain asked in a low voice that still carried a snide snip to it.

"Not as much as it appears to bother you," she replied, chuckling up at him.

He stopped and bent down to capture her chuckle with his lips. The kitten mewled plaintively and he stepped back finally. Marin's cheeks were flushed and her lips red and slightly swollen. At the moment, Loghain did not feel like he was ice. He felt like he had captured her fire and it flowed through his veins hot and needy. The power of it surprised him. He had never considered himself a man of carnal desires, he was a pragmatic, sensible man, not governed by his flesh. Yet here, now, he couldn't seem to get enough of her.

"You two try to get along while I go find a place for Wynne," Marin said and disappeared into the kitchens of the keep.

"It won't work," he said to Greagoir.

"No, but she'll keep trying anyway," Greagoir agreed, coming to stand beside Loghain. The both sighed and shook their heads.

"Irving and I fought over her once. A messy thing, bloody noses and bruises. She was furious with us both. Froze us both right there for everyone to see. Then healed us and told us she loved us both but not in a romantic way and that if we didn't learn to get along she would continue to freeze us at every opportunity."

Loghain heard himself laugh, a sound that was rusty from disuse. "Much as she did us the other day. She's always had an iron will."

They stood, not friends, but no longer enemies, united in their admiration for the woman now making her way back to them, a smile gracing her lips. Neither doubted that she would continue to push at them to become friends. Neither believed it would happen.

"You two look like you're up to no good. What did I miss?" she asked, coming to stand between them, an arm around Loghain's waist. He shrugged. Greagoir shrugged.

"Oh, men's secrets. Very well, I won't bother to ask again," she teased, pinching Loghain lightly. He gave a startled yelp and looked down at her, was caught by the heat in her eyes.

"Greagoir, would you excuse us?" Loghain was surprised to hear himself ask and at Greagoir's nod, he pulled Marin into the house and up to her bedroom, ignoring her laughing protestations that it was the middle of the day.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he found her lips, his own insistent as his hands pushed up her shirt and came down to cup her breasts, his thumbs rubbing her hardening nipples. She caught his lower lip in her teeth, tugging at it, nipping it, as her hands traveled up his back to snake through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. She moaned as he sank to his knees, face pressed to her belly, pulling her closer, his hands sliding up her calves and then the back of her knees to come to rest along the silken skin of her thighs. He pushed her skirts up and pulled her smallclothes down. With a growl, he buried his face in her, tongue flicking out as she gasped, arching into his mouth, pulling painfully on his hair. Her gasps and cries came faster and more urgently, her head falling back against the door as a flush spread across her skin. He was unrelenting in his pursuit of his goal. She cried out his name, over and over, her thighs quivering as he held her in place. And then he kissed the length of her scar, up from her just above her hip to just below her breast, before laying his head against her belly again. She stroked his forehead with tender, shaking fingers.

He was ice and his only hope of surviving was her fire.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N**: _**Spoilers for __**The Stolen Throne**__**  
My continued thanks and appreciation to those reading, lurking, reviewing and making my day brighter.  
Also, I wanted to let you all know that there is only one more chapter after this one, and an epilogue. I hope to have them both up in the next day or so. _

**No Lasting Victory**

_She couldn't help but think of Dragon's Mist as she watched the dragon glide gracefully across the gray dawn. The dragon roared, rumbling the ground beneath their feet. Loghain and Marin stood overlooking the valley below, frosted silver in the early morning. Their breaths were coming in white puffs. The narrow band of the river, glittering like ice as the sun reflected off it, flowed through the valley below them, marking the boundaries of the upcoming battle. Rowan came to stand with them and Marin felt Loghain stiffen. She shifted her cloak and gave Rowan an encouraging smile before retreating back to her tent. Whatever was between Rowan and Loghain was broken now and she wondered if he even realized it. Probably no more so than she realized how broken things were between them. _

_The dragon had to be a sign. They all believe it. And Loghain used that sign to rally the troops and the roar of the troops was louder than the dragon's roar. Marin fell in love with him all over again. His speech was brilliant; strong and commanding. The troops fell in love with him as well. They would follow him unto death, as she would. Over one thousand strong, they would break the Orlesians here or die trying. _

_Marin pulled her horse up beside him, sitting tall and proud in her saddle. Loghain was wearing his dark studded armor, his good luck talisman and it gave her courage. He glanced at her and his lips quirked upward ever so slightly. _

"_Are you ready for victory, mage?"_

"_At your command, poacher," she replied and he reached over and brushed her cheek lightly. He looked about to speak and then he wheeled his horse and they were thundering down to the River Dane. And victory. _

_The battle was not nearly as long as Marin expected it to be but she rode beside Loghain, casting spells and slashing with a sword, pushing the enemy back, showing no mercy as they had shown no mercy. It was bloody and they were driven back several times. She lost sight of Loghain, heard him at times shouting orders. Still she pressed forward and watched as Rowan and her troops swept down the hill and cut off the Orlesian's escape route. It was a simple, perfectly executed battle plan, thanks to Loghain. _

_Over half the troops were lost that day but it was the beginning of the end of the occupation. Ferelden would soon be free and her people rejoiced. After the battle she spent hours with the healers, trying to keep further losses to a minimum. There was an air of jubilation throughout the camp, even with the losses. This was victory. _

_Marin found Loghain long after the battle. He was dressed in heavy plate, a Chevalier's armor, and he looked magnificent. She chuckled. "You ever were a vain man," she said, sitting down beside him. She reached out and gently healed the cut that slashed across his cheek. He took her hand and kissed it. _

"_You were brilliant today, Marin the Mad," he whispered and closed his eyes, drifting into a weary sleep._

"_As were you, my love," she whispered in reply, knowing he could not hear her. The accord between them, the sudden cessation of hostilities was almost as surprising as the victory over the Orlesians. The real question, Marin thought with an unhappy quirk of lips, was which would be the lasting victory._

* * *

He found her sitting in the crook of the tree, where he knew he would. He had awoken in a state of panic, knowing she was gone and with a wild flare of fear, he had thought the past three weeks had been a dream, an illusion produced by a weary mind. He was feeling reckless and young and utterly charmed by the woman sitting in the tree, a dreamy smile on her face. He stood still, absorbing every nuance of the moment, bringing it into his mind and heart.

"Still no good at stealth, poacher," she called down with a grin.

"Still a tomboy, mage," he smiled up at her and held his arms out, an invitation that she accepted.

"You say tomboy mage, I say warrior mage," she responded, lifting her lips for his kiss. He did not disappoint her and she tasted of tea and honey and secrets.

"And yet, you will not fight this Aeonar sentence," he said and the mood, her mood, shifted and darkened. He cursed himself for being a fool, for breaking the spell but he tightened his arms around her.

"What is there to fight, Mac? Would you rather I have my head cleaved in two by a templar's sword of mercy?" she asked coolly, pushing out of his arms. He wanted to back down, to preserve their fragile peace. He found he could not. Some stubborn part of him had to argue, had to win.

"You are no malificar. You fought for Ferelden every bit as hard as Rowan or Maric. Your place in history is not as some mage condemned to Aeonar," he argued just as coolly, even while telling himself to stop talking, that he would drive her further away, further into herself.

"Do you want to start an Exalted March over me?" she asked in a tone that was meant to be light but held a sliver of sorrow in it.

"I didn't fight for you when I should have. Why would you ask me to do that again?" he ground out, appalled to find his eyes stinging. He would be damned if he would cry or beg, he would not. He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, fighting for control of his cursed tongue.

"Victories are funny things, Mac. Have you noticed? Sometimes they come after great bloody battles, tearing apart people and land and destroying the very things we are trying to protect," she said so softly that he had to strain to hear her words. And even hearing them did not make them clear to him.

"Other victories are so quiet, so gently acquired that they may go unnoticed for years. Which, I wonder, is the lasting victory?"

He moved to stand behind her, sliding his arms around her waist. He didn't want to hear her words, he didn't want to understand them. She was already steeling herself for her future in Aeonar and he didn't know if he could bear the thought of her there. She belonged in his arms and it had taken him over fifteen years to admit it. And it was the worst possible time for both of them, the most impossible time for anything good to come of it, but he couldn't let her go. Not without a fight. Not this time. Yet he couldn't bring himself to plead, to beg and for a minute he was that young man, too proud to fight. He shoved that young man away, pushed him into the deep shadows of his heart. Closed his eyes against the sudden sharp sting. He was General Loghain. He was a teryn, for Maker's sake.

"I can fight it, Marin. I will fight it," he assured her, his voice strong and commanding. It reminded her of battle long ago. A victory.

She leaned her head back against his chest and gave a murmuring sigh. "So I can go back to the tower and languish there, teaching apprentices and staring out the window, wanting a different life, hoping sometimes you'll be able to sneak in for a quick visit?" But she was tempted, he could hear it in the subtle hope that tinted her words, made her smile stronger.

She stepped away from him and began to walk along the overgrown path, her steps slow. She reached her hand out to him and he grasped it tightly in his. "I only ever wanted a quiet life, an ordinary life with children and a husband and a warm hearth to sit beside. With you," she added honestly, winging a shy smile at him as they walked. He couldn't stop the quickening of his pulses at her words. It was a dream. It was a dream he wanted as well. Had he always wanted it and just never believed he deserved it? Had it died that night he had left her, left words unspoken that were in his heart? He wasn't sure anymore what was his dream, what was hers. He just knew he needed her. And that frightened him almost as much as it elated him.

They found their way to the waterfall, high above the keep. Dragon's Mist. A towering, ferocious cascade that plumed white mist and roared with the strength of a dragon. The mist sprayed them, made the rocks around them treacherous but they stood in the mist, holding on to each other. The water thundered around them, making it impossible to talk but they found a way to communicate, simply standing and holding each other, soaking wet within minutes.

He persisted with the argument as they wandered down to the base of the falls. The large pool was shadowed and deep. Marin sat on a flat rock, stripping off her boots and socks, wringing out her wet hair. His heart, that damnable traitor, continued to guide his tongue and it aggravated him. He wasn't going to beg and yet here he was, offering a different solution. She finally put her hands over here ears, laughing.

"If you can catch me, I'll agree," she teased and without another word, dove into the pool; a graceful arc of gold and she was gone.

He kicked off his boots and dove after he, his breath leaving in a rush as the cold water tore into him, biting his flesh. But he was larger and stronger and he caught her easily, pulling her into his arms and kissing her blue tinted lips. They were both shivering and she was still laughing.

"You win," she whispered against his lips as they stood on the shore, huddling together.

"I don't know how, but I'll make this work," he promised and he meant every word. This was victory, one he hadn't expected, and it was sweet in the air around them. He breathed it in and smiled again, a strange expression that continued to become more familiar to him the longer he spent with her.

A raven dropped down, fussing at them and Marin buried her head against his shoulder, laughing sheepishly at herself. "We must be near her nest."

But as they turned to make their way back down to warmth and dry clothes, Marin stopped and cocked her head.

"Did you hear that?" she asked, frowning.

"Hear what?" Loghain asked, unable to hear anything but her voice over the roar of the falls.

"I thought I heard a woman's voice," she said and shook her head. "How very strange."

She turned and went back to the pool, leaving Loghain shivering on the path. The only other creature around was the raven, hopping around, pecking angrily at the ground and squawking her outrage.

"Alright, alright, I'm going, raven," she muttered and walked back to Loghain, who was shaking violently with the cold. She grinned, a pert, saucy grin that took him back to their youth, and with a whisper, she reached out and touched him. He felt the magic flow through him, around him, sending tendrils of warmth into every part of him.

"What did you hear?" he asked again once they were both warm but she shrugged.

"I thought I heard a woman's voice talking to us."

"Hmmm, hearing things, are we? And what did this woman say?" he teased, pulling her close again. She smelled of fresh water and sunshine. She smelled of a forgotten time when he had been too foolish to listen to his heart.

"_Oh no, that will never do_," she answered and frowned for a minute. "It was as plain as the nose on your face," she added, tweaking his nose.

But his lips were on hers, his tongue plundering her mouth and she let the matter slip out of her mind.

Victory had never tasted so sweet to Loghain.


	10. Chapter 10

**A Harsh Mistress**

"_Amnesty. Amnesty for all the apostates who fought in the rebellion," Maric said, holding the decree from the Grand Cleric as if were a fragile flower. "That's surprising."_

_Loghain leaned back in his chair, an eyebrow quirked. "What does she want in return?"_

"_Me," Marin answered quietly. "She wants me to turn myself in to the Circle of Magi of Ferelden."_

_The three of them were in the throne room. Rowan was settling her brothers at Redcliffe. It was the only reason Loghain had consented to attend the meeting at the palace. They all knew it but none of them spoke of it. _

"_Well that won't happen. You're the court healer. You have every right to be here," Loghain spat, his blue eyes the color of a winter storm. _

"_The court healer traditionally comes from the tower, Mac. I am an apostate, whether you want to admit or not. That means any templar with a desire for fame will hunt me. That's not the life I want, not now." The look she turned on him was accusatory, hurt. He was betrothed now, and not to a noble. He sighed, wondering why he had consented to come to court, knowing she would be here. Wounds were festering and scabs peeling away to expose them. He felt raw and defenseless and he didn't like it. He cloaked himself in his anger. _

_Maric sat up straighter, shooting a look at Loghain. "She's right. We can't afford to rile the Grand Cleric, or the Divine for that matter. As I understand it, the Divine is willing to overlook our transgressions if Marin submits to the circle, and if she makes an appeal to other apostates to do the same."_

_Marin gave an unhappy chuff of laughter, a bitter sound that dropped into the silence with a dull thud. "So not only do I submit, but I force others to do so."_

"_You are Marin the Mad, hero of Dragon's Mist and River Dane," Loghain ground out, his face twisted with anger. "They have no right."_

_But they did, and he knew it as well as anyone. "History belongs to men; they are the legends and heroes. Women are martyrs, at best," she argued. _

"_And that's what you're to be? A martyr? Fed to the chantry? And you'll allow this, Maric?" Loghain snarled, snapping out of his seat and striding around the room, eyes narrow, expression haughty. _

"_We didn't defeat the Orlesians just to bow down to the Divine and her Orlesian chantry puppets," he added angrily._

_Marin's eyes widened. "Why are you so angry? It isn't as if you're being sent to live in the tower," she said and her words were low and bitter. _

"_Would you rather I didn't care, Marin? You think me some ill bred monster because I don't want you to be locked away in a tower?" he sneered, his eyes narrowed and cold as they tore into her._

_Magic jumped along her and she stood up, coming to stand before him, her mouth turned down and eyes narrowed. "You insufferable, arrogant man! You don't want me, but you won't let me go."_

_He reached out to grab her arms but she held out her hands, palms up. "Do not touch me," she whispered hoarsely. "You have made your position clear."_

_He spun away from her, hands falling to his sides. Maric cleared his throat. _

"_Ferelden's safety is more important than one person, Loghain. Maric knows this. I know this. If I don't submit, they will be justified in sending an army of templars after apostates within the borders of Ferelden. Is that what you want to see? We tossed out the Orlesians only to have their counterparts here en masse?" she asked, her voice softer. She came to him, reaching out a supplicating hand._

"_Haven't we given enough to Ferelden? Would you risk having to give more?"_

_Maric sighed and shook his head. "She's right, Loghain."_

_Loghain swung around to look at them, his eyebrow quirked. "And this makes it better? She gave everything to free Ferelden and now we're just going to ignore her sacrifices?" he asked, his voice deathly quiet. He took her hand in his, gripping it so tightly that Marin winced._

"_Ferelden is a harsh mistress, Loghain. She demands constant sacrifice. But she's worth it. You're worth it," she whispered and then turned on her heal and walked from the room, head held high._

"_Go after her, you arse," Maric said with his lopsided grin and Loghain was striding out of the room before he finished. He caught her up in his arms, pulling her to him and his lips were bruising on hers._

"_Be happy, Mac. That's all I ask," she whispered brokenly and then she turned and fled and he watched her, unable to speak around the tightness in his chest._

_He returned to Gwaren the next morning. Two weeks later, he was married to a cabinet maker's daughter._

* * *

The Grand Cleric was not happy. She was not happy at all. Her face was pinched into a frown and her eyes were narrowed and withering as she eyed the two templars before her.

"Your orders were clear. Bring Marin Gallard Amell to Aeonar. Yet I have learned that she is in Dragon's Mist. Why is that?"

Jerod and Kenric glanced at each other and remained silent. The Grand Cleric's jaw twitched and then her eye twitched.

"I suggest you leave immediately for Dragon's Mist. If she gives you any trouble, do whatever is necessary. Do you understand your instructions?"

Jerod and Kenric nodded in unison and with a bow, they withdrew. "This Marin Amell? Is she the one they call Marin the Mad?" Kenric asked, a note of awe in his voice. He was a red headed man with a face full of freckles, well hidden behind his helm, young and still a bit unsure of himself.

Jerod nodded, his brown eyes wide. "She's the one that won the battle at Dragon's Mist. She was an apostate during the rebellion. I hear she's a malificar."

The men departed Denerim that same day.

* * *

Loghain leaned over the bed and poked Marin with a finger, smirking. "Wake up if you're going hunting with us, you lazy mage," he said loudly and Marin jumped. Her eyes flew open and she sat up, the blanket and sheet pooling around her waist as she stretched.

"Or I suppose they could wait for a bit," he leered, bending down to nuzzle her neck. She flung her arms around him, pulling him down.

"My nefarious plan has worked," she crowed, and then gasped as his mouth continued the journey from her neck down to her breasts.

"Madam, I assure you, it was my nefarious plan, not yours," he argued, gently biting first one nipple and then the other.

"Then I beg your pardon and submit myself to your nefarious plan, General Loghain," she whispered, tugging at his shirt.

An hour later, Loghain made his way down the stairs. Greagoir looked up and frowned. "Marin isn't coming with us?"

"She says she's too tired and that you're not to worry, she promises not to perform any magic while you're gone."

"I should stay here, just in case," Greagoir said reluctantly but before Loghain could argue with him, Marin was at the top of the stairs, barefoot and her shirt inside out, her skirt askew. Greagoir bit back a smile and Loghain laughed outright. Corwin looked scandalized.

"Go, shoo, out with you men! I promise to behave, Greagoir."

She came racing down the stairs and launched herself at Loghain, who caught her up and kissed her soundly before setting her on her feet.

"Do you want me to leave any of my men?" he asked seriously but she shook her head.

"Just go and bring back some meat, rabbit wrangler," she teased and he dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose before grabbing his bow and quiver.

She was at the well when she heard the sound of horses approaching. Wearing a plain homespun dress, she could easily be mistaken for a maid. She looked up, smiling, sure it was the men returning from the hunt. Her smile faded as the sun caught the gleaming metal of templar armor. She set the bucket of water down carefully and backed toward the house.

"Ho there, young maid. We are looking for Marin Amell!" one of the templar's called in a friendly voice.

Marin's heart skipped several beats as she continued backing toward the house. "Who?" she asked, her voice reedy with fear.

High over head she heard a raven's cry. It sounded like laughter. The two templar's dismounted and tied their horses to a rail. She wet her suddenly dry lips.

"You're a mage," the taller of the two accused and began to move deliberately in her direction. He motioned discreetly to the shorter man to go around the other way. Marin watched with wary eyes.

"Then you know you've found Marin Amell," she said quietly. She moved her hands in front of her and closed her eyes, her lips moving. The smite caught her mid cast and hurled her some feet back. She crashed to the ground with a loud thump and the air rushed out of her.

"Please," she whispered before her stomach clenched and her breakfast came up. She retched, weak and dizzy. "General Loghain is here. He – he will explain," she finally managed between gasps. She was drained, weak as a newborn. Helpless. She staggered to her feet but her legs were too wobbly and she fell back to the ground.

"The Grand Cleric sent us," Kenric said ominously. "She said we're to have a bit of sport with you and then do whatever is necessary to take you into custody."

Jerod shot a look at Kenric. "She said any means necessary, she didn't say anything about sport," he countered. Kenric looked at him, his eyes through the visor a sickly yellow. Jerod reached for his sword.

Marin was scooting away, scuttling across the courtyard toward the path, thinking in her confusion that Mac and her tree would be at the end of the path and that meant safety. The gauntleted fist caught her on her temple and her head exploded in a white hot pain that robbed her of vision and thought but she continued onward, instinct driving her.

"Hey Kenric, no sense in that. She can't hurt anyone now," Jerod protested and Marin turned to look at him just as the other templar brought his sword up. With a harsh cry, he brought it down and Jerod fell, his skull split in two. Marin tried to scream but it came out guttural and low, impossible to hear.

"Now come along, sweetheart. Lets you and I get acquainted better. Long ride ahead of us, might as well be friends."

Marin heard a loud clatter. It was the sound of armor hitting the ground. Maker, he was stripping out of his armor. Marin's panic flared and she scrambled along the ground, finally pushing herself up. He caught her dress in a tight grip and she pulled desperately. The dress tore and she was running down the path. He was laughing, an eerie sound that seemed to reverberate through her muscle and tissue, into her heart.

He caught her just as she was pulling herself into the tree, dragging her down. She kicked out with her foot but he laughed again and she looked up at his face, saw a flicker of abject horror in his eyes before they hardened again. And then she felt it. A trickling of power beginning to form around her. A ripple in the veil, shimmering and beckoning. She lashed out at him, her nails biting into his flesh as she screamed. She started casting then, her darkest, fiercest spell. She set him aflame. He was writhing where he stood, undulating screams as his skin began to drip away.

"Marin, no!" a voice cried and she was hit with another smite, pushing into her and robbing her of her small pool of mana. She went skidding back, the rocks in the ground beneath her back scraping at her skin.

"She's mad!" one of the soldiers yelled. "She's gone crazy! She'll kill us all!"

Greagoir had his sword out, advancing, his face as grey as his eyes. "Marin?" he called and she nodded, retching again, her stomach empty and churning, full of bile that rose in her mouth.

"No!" Loghain shouted, throwing himself at Corwin, who was advancing with his sword above his head. Corwin stumbled and fell as Loghain crashed into him, the sword falling from his surprised grasp.

Loghain rolled off him and was up and running to Marin, who was spent, eyes closed, breath heaving. He knelt beside her, glancing at Greagoir. Greagoir nodded and he scooped her up in his arms, rocking her, his voice rough and thick with emotions as he calmed her.

_A raven landed in the shadow of the trees. The Woman of Many Years. The Witch of the Wilds. Flemeth stood in the shadows; became a part of the shadows. She wore a triumphant expression, her smile a gleeful curl, whispering, "And so it is done," before shifting back into a raven and winging away against the cloudless blue sky._

Marin was weeping softly, tears washing away the blood and dirt, leaving pale tracks in her face. She looked up, her green eyes dark and serious as they met Loghain's wintery blue eyes. They knew, without speaking, that her fate was sealed, he would not be able to save her from Aeonar now.

"We'll leave in the morning," Greagoir said quietly and the depth of his misery muffled his voice.

Marin nodded and struggled to sit up. Loghain refused to let her go, standing and carrying her back to the keep. He climbed the stairs and laid her carefully on the bed, settling beside her.

"I love you," Marin whispered against Loghain's chest. He bent down and kissed the golden crown of her head.

"Indeed?" he asked quietly.

"Just so," she replied with a faint smile.

"I can't imagine why," he answered honestly, his arms tightening around her.

"It seems rather unlikely, doesn't it? You are taciturn, stubborn, arrogant, obstinate and moody," she answered and the smile grew.

"Well, I'm hardly surprised then. Admirable traits, all," he replied dryly, dropping another kiss on her head.

"And passionate, thoughtful, intelligent and charming," she added softly, leaning up to kiss him with each word.

Loghain closed his eyes, sudden tears hot and thick behind his lids. In all his life, no one had ever said such things about him, to him. He had never been given a chance to be those things without someone expecting something in return. Here was this woman, this beautiful, graceful creature curled in his arms and she had given him her heart so freely, meant those words without expecting anything in return.

"You're mad," he growled, capturing her lips with his.

"Yes, I think we've established that," she agreed with a chuckle.

"I love you, Marin. Maker help me, but I love you," Loghain confessed against her lips and it didn't matter that they had no future, they had these last moments together and it would have to last them both a lifetime.

In the morning she sat in his lap, cupping his face in her hands, her eyes serious. "I once told you that Ferelden is a harsh mistress. I meant it then, I mean it now. She is worth the sacrifices, Mac. Don't ever forget that. Just promise me that no matter what else happens you will keep her safe. You'll make sure that all the sacrifices made on her behalf are not made in vain."

Loghain nodded once, throat too clogged with emotion and tears he wouldn't allow to fall to attempt speech.

"Do not, no matter how great the temptation, try to contact me, Loghain. They will use any excuse to tear you down. To tear Ferelden down. Don't give them the chance. And if my reputation is in tatters because of this, let it stay tattered. The chantry fears me because I am strong and because people still remember River Dane and Dragon's Mist. When I'm gone, they will forget and the chantry will be content to let them. You must too. "

"I can't promise that, Marin."

"Stubborn man. You can and you must."

He nodded once, reluctantly. "Now help me out to my horse. I need to leave while I still have the will to do so," she added, sliding off his lap.

He helped her mount and stood, his hand on her boot, staring up at her. She sat straight and proud, her head inclined. He had never seen such courage and he wondered if his men could hear the sound of his heart breaking.

"For Ferelden," she said for his ears alone.

"For Ferelden," he answered, squeezing her booted foot.

She spurred her horse forward but stopped at the gates and turned, waving once, before continuing on, Greagoir and Corwin at her side.

The last vestiges of who he could have been, who he had so desperately wanted to be, rode away with her that morning. And once again the relentless, bitter press of duty and promises crowded in, blistering his heart, searing it, encasing it in stone. But he would keep his promises to her, even if it killed him.

* * *

**Eight months later**

First Enchanter Irving and newly appointed Knight Commander Greagoir entered Aeonar side by side. Lay Sister Catrione led them to a small room and they entered to find Marin, belly swollen, smiling up at them from her bed.

"Just in time. In fact, almost too late," she greeted and held out her hands to them.

"This baby is as stubborn as its father, demanding it be born now," she said and then gasped as another pain shot through her.

Greagoir nodded and removed his gauntlets and took one of her hands, pressing it to his lips. Irving took her other hand and squeezed it in his. "Tell us what to do," he said and she gripped their hands tightly, a low cry stealing her words.

Twenty two hours later, Arin Amell was born in a small, dark room in the depths of Aeonar. Marin removed her amulet and carefully handed it to Greagoir.

"Find somewhere safe and loving for her, Greagoir. Don't let her know about me. Don't let her know about Mac. Give her this when she is too young to ask where it came from. And Maker, keep her safe."

Marin sighed, closing her eyes. "Let her have a chance at a happier life."

**A/N: a short epilogue follows **


	11. Chapter 11

**Epilogue**

**The Landsmeet**

How had it come to this? Loghain stood in the Landsmeet chamber, surveying the nobles and he saw the hungry look in their eyes. They wanted blood. They wanted _his_ blood. He, the Hero of River Dane, the regent. The man who had helped free them. But a part of him knew why they wanted his blood, he even understood why they would want it, _he_ would have wanted it had it been another person committing those acts.

He glanced at Anora, her face a mask of control. He had wanted to love her, wanted to be a good father but he had been an absent father, so busy fulfilling his promises to Marin and Maric that he had never found common ground with her, had given her everything she had desired except a father's love. That she had accused him of losing his mind, of not being the man that Ferelden had loved, came as no surprise. That she hadn't done it sooner was the only real surprise.

His eyes traveled to the young mage in front of him, dressed in silverite armor, shield and sword strapped on her back. There was a strength in her, a courage, that he hadn't seen in years and then only in one person. Was that why she seemed so oddly familiar to him? Because she had Maric's golden hair and Marin's strength and courage. He blinked.

Maker, he was so tired. So tired of trying to do what was best for Ferelden when Ferelden didn't seem to care about the sacrifices or the honor that bound him to those promises made to Maric and Marin. His heart twisted in his chest and the bitterness that had held his heart so tightly under seal began to ease.

Odd, the mage seemed to have Marin's eyes. What was her name? Arin? A curious coincidence if one believed in such things. He blinked again, his resolve wavering. He raised his voice above the din, challenging the young mage to a duel to decide the fate of the throne. Was he mad? But there she was, removing her shield and sword and calmly agreeing, circling him with candid eyes that seemed to stare right into his soul.

His thoughts wandered as he raised his sword and began to fight. It would be easy enough to concede defeat and just let Ferelden move on without him. What had he become to keep her safe? How much had he given away, only to fail anyway?

The only one not surprised by his defeat was Loghain. He knelt, yielding. Relieved to do so. She stared at him and there was a moment where he almost thought he was staring up at Marin. It was a trick of light, no doubt. He blinked and was staring again at the young mage Warden, who was deciding his fate.

The Bastard Prince was arguing for his death. The Orlesian Warden was arguing to make him a Warden. He hoped that she would listen to the Bastard Prince. He was so tired of being bitter, so tired of being angry and resentful. So tired of trying to fulfill a promise it seemed impossible to fulfill. He knew what he had become and he was tired of trying to justify it to himself. Maker, he was just so tired of it all.

He watched as the mage frowned and then his eyes flickered with surprise. She was rubbing an amulet, a wooden rabbit rubbed nearly smooth, but one he none the less recognized.

"_Oh," he said matter-of-factly, reaching into his pocket, "I made this and thought you might like it." He tossed her an amulet and she caught it deftly. She looked up to thank him but he was already gone. _

Relief swept through him, almost made him too weak to continue kneeling. He could relinquish his duty now. He could leave Ferelden in her hands and be done with it all. She was his daughter, and Marin's. She had the strength and courage and determination to save them all, it was in her blood. He could lay down his burden and let his heart wander free again.

The mage nodded at the Bastard Prince and raised her sword.

Then Loghain Mac Tir did the unexpected. He smiled, stretching his neck up to meet the blade of her sword.

Marin passed away peacefully in her sleep three nights later.

* * *

"_You're late, mage," Loghain said with a quirk of his lips. He was leaning against the tree, arms folded, ankles crossed, waiting patiently._

"_I thought it was time you waited for me just this once, poacher," Marin teased, coming to slip her hand in his. Her smile was radiant, even in the dark. _

_He dropped a kiss on her lips and then they walked to a small cottage, windows glowing in welcome, where a warm hearth awaited them._

Fin.


End file.
